Stormfront 3
by juliasejanus
Summary: Third Part of the Stormfront Arc. AU after Chapter 17 of Stormbreaker. SLASH Relationships Alex has exiled himself after the devastating events of his 18th birthday. Now he has to decide where he goes from here?
1. Chapter 1

It was very peaceful, only the sounds of the birds, insects and very distant traffic noise. In the few months he had lived alone, he had grown used to this pastural idyll. Alex was sat on a bench on the west side of the green lane, on the brow of the hill, beside an arable field, on a bright and fine September morning. It was clear and he took in the wonderful view to the north, over the Vale of Pickering across to Kirkbymoorside and Farndale. He was half way through his usual circuit of four miles for his a daily brisk walk from Laundry Lane to the village then to Broughton by the old railway track and up and around through the Bridle paths back to his small cottage. The two bedroomed terrace had been bought at auction in April, complete with basic furnishings left from its former use as a holiday home. It was perfect, a mile from the village, two miles from the nearest town and eight miles from the North York Moors. It was just outside of the main tourist haunts, so very quiet and peaceful. The house had previously been owned by a retired couple who had recently moved into full time residential care.

Alex had bought the cottage sight unseen. Here, he was a complete recluse except for his monthly appointments to the Nuffield Hospital in York for his check-ups, the bi-monthly visits of his therapist Jean Briggs and his weekly visits to the local supermarket.

Sergei had been dead for seven months. Murdered by assailants unknown. Maria and Alex had both been cleared as suspects. Two days after those fateful events, Maria had been left Paris to go back to Moscow, to take the reigns of Sergei Rushkov's vast business holdings. On hearing the plans, the teenager had discharged himself from hospital in Paris and traveled back with her. The pair were each others support through the nightmare of life without Sergei.

After the small private funeral was held in Moscow within five days for Sergei Rushkov. The Russian woman had insisted that Alex rest completely and follow the rules laid down by the doctor, with regular check ups, taking his prescribed medication and looking after himself. Sergei's staff now looked after Maria. Alex had felt completely unneeded as work kept Maria on her toes. So, the eighteen year old made plans for his own future. His workaholic sister had inherited most of Sergei's estate. The arms dealer had also bequeathed a substantial trust for his favourite poet. A monthly income to keep Alex in luxury, overseen by Maria, to prevent Alex falling into bad habits. He had used the money that kept being deposited by Edward to secure his own place, a cash sale in an auction for a home back in England. Even before Sergei's death, Alex had trusted Maria, as Sergei trusted her. She was a good friend, once you got to know her.

Alex breathed in the clean country air and tried not to think of the past, just the present moment. His seclusion guaranteed as he had left the name Rider behind. Here he was Alex Beckett. He had accomplished the name change legally. All his documentation changed, both his British and Israeli passports. The only person he had informed had been Maria, who was happy to act as buffer between the fragile poet and his previous life. He spoke to her at least twice a week. She was happy with his positive attitude, moving on from the devastation of the events of his eighteenth birthday.

The woman had expected Alex to have completely fallen apart after the loss of Sergei. The eighteen year old was, in truth, disassociated from the trauma, as he could not remember any of the events that day. All memory lost after his head trauma, which according to his neurologist was expected and normal. He still sported a wicked scar on the left side of his head caused by the bullet nicking his skull. He had intermittent awful headaches, but his depression, grief and other issues had not stagnated into self harm, but led to Alex's adoption and adherence to his own management plan to keep his weight up, to get over his complete devastation. Some may think of his life now as avoidance but it was a good comprosmise, as he had no reason to return to London, Paris, Nice or Moscow. He also had to admit his strong desire not to see or do anything.

Alex had a phone and laptop, but his only friend and confidante was his affectionate, bossy, adopted sister, Maria Federova. His only friend and family now.

Today was proving to be a good day, his walk perfectly timed to avoid dog walkers or kids on the way to school. He sat an tried to think of clouds and wild flowers in this beautiful landscape, he had not written verse since a short note he had left on Maria's desk

_The storm inside me has stilled_

_My emotions were yours and yours alone_

_When did I loose myself in you?_

_You were my axis, the centre of my universe_

_Now I am alone in the void_

_No up, no down, no light, only dark..._

He stood up to walk the mile home. He could not complain about his immediate neighbours, who were friendly enough, but thankfully not too nosy. The only personal contact for the young man, if you did not count the health professionals, the monosyllabic driver or the person on the till at Morrisons.

He arrived home to see Maggie, his neighbour, putting out the washing, taking advantage of the fine weather and stiff breeze. "Morning Alex. You look well this morning."

"Not bad, Mrs. Hooke. How about you."

"Good. My daughter is back tonight for the weekend."

Through conversations shared with his neighbour, Alex had heard all about Delia, twenty two, still at medical school. The apple of her parent's eye. "Have a good time. If you need anything I'll be around. Well I'm in York this afternoon. Do you want me to pick you up anything from M&amp;S?"

"No thanks, love. You're a dear for offering." Margaret Hooke had tried to gossip with the driver who arrived the last Friday of the month, like clockwork, but who stated he knew very little about the teenager he ferried about. She has watched over the strange boy who had moved next door a week after its sale. The boy just an adult, had no visitors, he did not go out, neither to the pub, church or to any clubs.

Alex went inside and checked his computer for any emails and his mobile for messages. He had an email and a message both from Moscow, he then called Maria back. He was one of a very few that had that woman's direct dial. Maria had a new and very scary personal secretary in Yulia Zinovieva, a strict woman who was very good at insisting on messages being left and never disturbing her busy boss. Maria picked up after four rings. "Darling Sasha, how are you?"

"Fine, its a lovely morning here. I've just finished my walk."

"I'm glad you are fit and well. No headaches this week?"

"One on Tuesday. Not a full Migraine, so I was OK by the evening. I would have called you this evening after my appointment in York, what's up?"

"Five messages from Edward Pleasure. Please talk to him. He wants you to attend some open auditions in London next week."

"Later, after I see what Mr. Koreshi says after this afternoon's appointment."

"Sounds like a plan. You have Edward's details. Call him."

"Yes, Masha." Alex always agreed with Maria, she was usually right about everything. It helped the woman was brilliantly efficient. She had even sorted out the mess of the bequests from Ian Rider. The Royal and General had tried to play the 'Alex is mentally unstable card, so not to be trusted with any money'. Maria acted as banker, guardian and financial controller. She had a lawyer trying to track down personal effects, but it was likely Blunt had ordered the documents, photos and furniture sold or destroyed.

...

That afternoon, the driver arrived promptly at 1, as usual. Alex liked the fact Maria had sorted a private car for him to use. It was better than walking into Malton to get the bus or train into York. Dave was not a talker, then again he did not annoy Alex with questions. Alex would endure his poke and prod by the doctor then visit M&amp;S for some decent food for the next week.

The doctor had the results of a series of scans, the nurses' observations and his four appointments with the miracle boy, who survived a shot to the head by a professional assassin. "Well, Alex. I think you are officially fit and healthy. You will probably continue to have headaches and migraines. So, no smoking, be careful how much alcohol you drink, especially red wine. Keep up the regular exercise, eat balanced meals and enjoy yourself responsibly and you should be fine."

...

After seven months Alex had finally been given a clean bill of health. He stood outside the hospital to tell Maria the good news straight away.


	2. Chapter 2

It was after nine, Alex was drinking a glass of white wine to celebrate his return to health. He was procrastinating and he knew it. He had eaten cheese and crackers for his frugal supper. He should phone Edward, he really should. The sky was darkening and Alex suddenly missed the blissful solitude he'd enjoyed this summer. He had enjoyed seeing the crops in the nearby fields ripen, be harvested and the fields were now being ploughed, from green to gold and now brown. In August, Alex had lain awake at night listening to the distant drone of the combine harvesters working until the after midnight. It had been strange, the the low rubble had been comforting. Rural Yorkshire was an alien place for a boy who had grown up in cities. He looked at the blank journal by his chair, half the pages torn out already and burnt. He had not written a word worth recalling in months. He picked up a pen...

Broken, I am not broken.

I have bent in the winds of adversity.

You call me reckless.

I acted out of need to be heard.

Alex then threw the pen down in disgust. Such self obsessed drivel.

Alex did not feel guilty for not talking to Edward. It wasn't like he hadn't been in touch. He's sent a couple of postcards. Both posted from Moscow, via Maria. So the journalist knew he was alive. Alex just hadn't been in the mood to socialize or go over the crap about the book, his horrible past or to justify the fact he was a complete recluse. It was good being a nobody again. Alex's brief brush with fame, publicity and being in the public eye had always led to a strange distorted pseudo Alex on display, his masks were there for all to see. Most of the press sensationalized his bad days not caring that most of the time he was a boring nobody. He liked the quiet, dull life away from London. Its not as if Alex had any close friends, not anymore. He really could not put it off any longer and not face Maria's wrath.

Three rings and Liz Pleasure answered the phone. She was in the middle of creating for a new production and did not need any distraction. She answered the blasted device with a curt "Hello!"

"Umm.. Liz? Err.. Is Edward there? Its Alex, Alex Rider." It sounded so weird after calling himself Alex Beckett since May.

"Oh, how are you, Alex? Thank you for your flowers on my birthday. They were lovely?'

"Well florists are great, you pay they create. I'm glad you liked the bouquet. So is Edward home?"

"No, he's somewhere... let me see... his diary states he's at a meeting with some director over script rewrites. He was due back at seven but he rang to say the meeting was running late. You could try his mobile."

"Ok Liz, I'll text him."

Hi Edward, its Alex. You can get me on this number. I spoke to Liz. You have your priorities wrong, leaving your lovely lady home alone on a Friday night. She might be tempted to stray...

Alex went to put the kettle on. He kept his wine consumption to a bottle over the weekend, which worked out at two small glasses a night. He was going to have a cup of chai tea and have a sit in the backyard, and think back to the wonderful feeling of smoking, God he missed it.

The square of concrete with a small deck and outdoor dining area, It was tiny but manageble. A few herbs in pots, not that Alex did much cooking. He did not call reheating ready meals or throwing together pasta and a jar of sauce, cooking. What was the point? He had ordered a few take out pizzas, but the three local takeaways were not a patch on Luigi's in Chelsea. Where the pizzas had been cooked in an authentic wood fired oven. The dough peppered with flecks of ash. Alex had only been to Turin in Italy. He must travel a bit and explore new horizons. He had all the time in the world. Maybe, next year, at the moment he was just happy just to be still, unobserved and alone.

The peace of the evening twilight was disturbed when a young woman with brown hair came out of the neighbours house. "Hi, I'm Delia. Mum's told me a lot about the polite boy living next door ."

Alex put down his tea cup "Hello Delia, I'm Alex. How's medical school? As you can see your mother talks about you as well."

"It's good. I love Edinburgh and plan to stay on up there after I graduate next year." The girl flicked her brown bob and smiled "Fancy a trip into town. I'm meeting a few friends for a drink at the Spotted Cow?"

"Thanks for offering but can I rain check. I'm thinking of an early night. I'm always shattered after getting poked and prodded by my doctor in York."

"Oh anything serious?"

"Yeah, kind of, serious head injury in February. It's taken a whole to get back up to speed and I daren't go back to my bad old habits of partying hard." Alex then looked at the girls disbelieving face. "After my last stint in rehab I've sworn off pubs, clubs and parties in general. For you information it was hard drugs and excessive alcohol, not the bullshit about exhaustion most of the other guys staying at St. Jude's went on about. Best keep out of temptations way."

"Sure thing Alex. Rain check"

Alex always found absolute honesty and bluntness was the best way to get people to back off. The idea of standing in a pub drinking beer would just, in the end, lead him to purchasing chemical enhancement of the very illegal variety. He loved the loss of control, the black dreamless oblivion promised by getting the right combination of vodka, coccaine and heroin. The edge of darkness, that promised never waking up. He had vowed to himself, to Maria and initially to Sergei, he would not fall off the wagon. Stick to wine and champagne but nothing stronger. Alex then laughed at his continued wrier's block, the truth was without being off his head his muse had left.

...

Alex looked at his phone as it rang far too early on a Sunday morning. 07:20. Shit, fuck and buggery, who the hell was ringing him this early.

"What?"

"Err.. Alex? Its Edward... Sorry I lost track of time and I just read your text. Its after 9am in Moscow?"

"Yeah... I guess...Fuck, Edward! I live in England so its still sleeping in time for a normal Sunday. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes. I need a slash and a cup of tea."

Edward Pleasure had been so sure Alex was still in Russia. Then again, Alex was a law unto himself and had lived quietly and off the radar in Chichester for year. True to his word, Alex called back after 25 minutes. "How are you Alex? Are you back living in Sussex?"

Alex thought back to the joyless, practically squalid bedsit he'd resided in while at college. "No, God, no. Somewhere rural and quiet. I'm fit and well, just not in touch with any of the old crowd. So why do you need to see me?"

"Right, the film is all green lighted. The script is finished, but I would prefer you're approval of the 'fictionalised account'. I'd prefer you OK it rather than think its a complete fairy tale. Its graphic in places. There are open auditions for teenage you in London starting on Tuesday at the London School of Musical Theatre, Borough Road near Waterloo."

"Fictionalised?... right! To tell you the truth, I could not tell you the real nightmare about Sayle because of the OSA. All the crap about Yassen was spot on. The actor they've cast is fit, isn't he? Yassen is beautiful, you know. I did not fall for an ugly bastard. He never lied as well, he was the real deal of brutally honest. Fuck, I've not really thought about that crap for weeks. I do need to talk to you about getting over writer's block. I've produced drivel when I've tried to write. Verse is not flowing, not anymore. I've discussed it with my therapist, but she thinks its because I'm in limbo here. She thinks I'll start writing when I get my shit together and start dating again. I'm a recluse here, no socialising at all. Well, that way I'm not tempted to get shitfaced."

"I promise the actor is fit. I'm not naming him because the director is wanting to keep details under wraps. So, are you coming to London?"

"Sure Edward, I'll see you bright and early on Tuesday in Waterloo."


	3. Chapter 3

The train to Kings Cross had been packed, Alex was so glad he'd opted for first class for a bit of luxury and a decent seat. Loads of people had been standing in Standard class. The weary traveller arrived in the capital at the end of rush hour, it had been 7:30 when he arrived gasping for fresh air after the nightmare of the Tube crossing London to Waterloo Station. He had booked four nights at a small pub on Waterloo Road. Alex sat in the bar with a pint of London Pride and a plate of Fish and Chips. The place was quiet, but it was a Monday, The Landlady, Donna, stated it was normally fairly quiet at the beginning of the week. His room faced out on to the busy road between Waterloo and Waterloo East Stations. The traffic noise reminded Alex of Cheyne Walk, just off the Chelsea Embankment; but also of other homes, apartments in Barcelona, Paris, Madrid and Berlin. The teenager had also grown to appreciate the eerie forest dacha in Russia and the peaceful slower way of life in North Yorkshire.

Alex sat in the small dining room the next morning with a small portion of scrambled eggs and toast rather than the expected full english. His breakfast was smothered in brown sauce, washed down with Earl Grey tea. The four other diners were a mix of two Australian tourists and two poe-faced businessmen. Alex was neither, he was in the capital for unfinished business. For the last six months he had put his life on hold. Now, maybe being a bit proactive would help him regain his mojo. Not that he thought the interveneing months had been a waste, but he was itching for something new just to get over his monumental writer's block. On reflection, he suspected he had written all he was going to write about Yassen or Sergei. They were past. Now he had to build a future.

...

He walked slowly down Waterloo Road and then along Borough Road to the London School of Musical Theatre, the place named on Edward's email as where the open auditions for actors to portray 'Alex' was taking place. He guessed there would be a queue of young teens waiting, but when he got to the building he noted a small queue already in line of young adults. Alex joined the queue behind a handsome dark haired young man. The guy was intently reading Edward's book.

"Morning." Alex said to no one in particular and there was a quick hi, hellos and mornings from the six aspiring actors. Alex knew from Edward they were looking for fresh unknowns.

The handsome guy studying the book took a deep calming breath before looking at Alex. "I guess if they're looking for a true likeness, you'll get the part." At this the guy held up the cover and compared the video snapshot of the 14 year old kidnap victim to the real man.

"I'm not here to get the part, my acting sucks."

"Break a leg anyway, I'm on borrowed time. I have to get an acting job before my 23rd birthday or I forget about tinseltown and having my name in lights. My dad thinks its pie in the sky. I keep telling him I might be over 25 or even 30 before I get lucky."

"I want to write, but thats almost as hard to get a break at. I have a few options to explore, apart from this before I go back home to North Yorkshire." It was nearly nine and Alex hoped Edward turned up soon.

The sly, furtive glances from the handsome stranger kept Alex amused.

"You really could be Alex. I'd cast you." The guy then put away his nearly new paperback. "Have you read it?"

"Only bits of it." The blond teenager answered truthfully as he'd only ever read the passages that Edward wanted checking for authenticity. A lot of the book dealt with media coverage and the background of the 'rescue'.

"Yeah, I've stuck to the direct quotes from Rider and the background discussions from his school, Brookdale."

"Brooklands Comprehensive, near the Worlds End Estate." Alex corrected under his breath.

"Don't tell me you scouted out Chelsea. I never do enough background stuff for auditions!" The young actor threw his head back in despair.

"Relax, I'm a Londoner, born within the sound of Bow bells. I have friends who live in Chelsea. A bit of advice about interviews and auditions, they want a type so no matter how much stuff you know, how much background or characterisation you do. They want something that can't be learned or imitated. You need to be true to yourself and your emotions during readings. You are selling you at this point not some half arsed attempt to be a person you've never met. So, go natural not Stanislavsky. Cool?"

"Sage advice. Just be natural. I hope I get a screen test."

The doors then opened. They slowly shuffled forward and the slots were passed to the first ten, Alex was now Number 8, but wished he'd bagged 6 and quipped to his companion, "lucky number 7"

"I hope so. I am so rude, I never introduced myself, Malcolm Bletchley."

"Alex Beckett."

"What a coincidence, isn't Helen Beckett Rider's mother."

"An amazing coincidence" Alex exclaimed brashly and smiled, a genuine slightly crooked smile that very few were blessed with.

Malcolm Bletchley shook his head and grinned back. "Edward Pleasure stated in his book that 'Alex' had a wicked sense of humour. "

...

The rehearsal room was on the first floor, bare walls, wooden floors and a piano in the corner. The panel of five included the waspish Casting Director, the young Spanish director, fresh from an underground hit horror movie, the two producers Alex had met in LA and the writer, a tired looking Edward Pleasure, who was staring at his script rather than concentrating on the actors.

Joachim de Valera smiled at the youth, immediately seeing the resemblance to the real kidnap victim and noticing the edge of uneasiness. "Tell us about yourself. Take a deep breath, there is no need to be nervous."

Alex shifted on his feet and removed his hat to reveal short dark blond hair. "Right, my name is Alex Beckett. I recently changed my name legally and now go by my mother's maiden name. I'm eighteen, single, err thinking of going to University just can 't decide on a subject, but I missed the intake this year as I had an accident in the spring."

"Ok Alex, have you a reading prepared?" the director continued, being the image of patient and understanding as most of those trying out today would have no professional acting experience.

Alex then smiled and started to recite the first of three Anna Amatova poems in the original Russian. He then read out the translations, in English then Spanish. Words of love and loss, all a million times better than any of the crud he'd scrawled down on paper. He kept his eyes closed giving each word the depth and reverence it deserved.

At the end of the recital Edward Pleasure clapped. "Thank you Alex, that was beautiful. I did not expect you to come and read for us. I was hoping to catch dinner with you after we finished the first round of auditions today."

"Yeah, about that I'm staying at the Wellington at Waterloo, see you about seven, seven thirty. I already texted Liz . I don't mind just taking your old lady out cause we can gossip about you" .

"I'm glad you and Liz are plotting behind my back. I might be a bit late, but as I remember the beer and food there are excellent. "

The bearded tall Spaniard was amused by the repartee between the writer and the boy. "So, you are Alex Rider. I'm glad the rumours that you were dead or a vegetable locked in a Siberian Clinic proved to be false."

"Oh, I guess the press have been making crap up about me again, I've been recuperating in the countryside since my near miss in February. Got the all clear from the doc on Friday. So do I get to read a bit of Edward's script now.?"

Edward then stood up to read with Alex rather than let Delice ham it up again.

"Not bad, Edward. I like how you've worded that interlude. So, you've cast Yassen? Going to tell me who the lucky actor is."

"Yes, it's under wraps at the moment, but don't worry the actor is fit, well according to Liz he is anyway." Edward then read the note Mark had passed him. "Can you come here on Thursday, we have should have the final sixteen or so mini-Alex's. Can you do readings with them?"

"Yeah I can manage that. See you tonight, Edward. Thanks guys. Good luck with casting. By the way I liked number seven, Very sexiful, Mr Bond."


	4. Chapter 4

Alex left the rehearsal room and exited the building onto Borough Road to find the handsome number seven smoking a roll-up cigarette outside.

With an exhale of smoke through his nose, Malcolm gave Alex Beckett a long appraisal as he now knew the teenager was 'Alex Rider'. "Hi Alex, my reading went ok, brilliant in fact. I took your advice and forgot about doing a London accent or any visualisation. I just went with the flow. I left my mobile number and I really think I'll get a call back."

"Are you staying locally?" Alex asked not breaking eye contact. Malcolm had shaggy dark hair, heavy stubble and caramel coloured eyes. His clothes were rumpled and worn. He looked short of money and in need of a large meal.

Malcolm looked away, shifting on his feet and then stubbed out his tab with his left foot. "I was staying with friends but I was hoping to get a bed in the backpackers hostel on the South Bank or at Ears Court. Where are you staying?"

"I have a room booked at a pub up the road. Nice double bed, en suite, good food. Fancy sharing?" Alex knew he was giving out the right signals and was in the mood for some no strings attached fucking.

"I need to see my agent tomorrow morning, and I can't thank you enough for the offer of room and board as I'm at a loose end due to my lack of funds." The desperate aspiring actor was flat broke and at the point of calling his parents and going back to Gloucestershire; back to rural oblivion and a dead end job and a dead end life. That finality was staved off by a few days at least.

When booking his room, Alex had insisted on a king sized bed and a proper bath. Room 4 was classed as executive deluxe. Not quite the luxury of the Dorchester, but the South Bank guaranteed there was no chance of getting photographed by some scum paparazzi.

Donna was working behind the bar, polishing glasses as it was early and only four punters in the bar, when she looked up to see the new arrivals. It was the worldly eighteen year old guest, who had arrived back at lunch with a dark haired friend.

Alex smiled at the landlady, "Malcolm is bunking with me, can you add him to the bill. I think it'll be full room and board for him as he's flat broke and not been eating much lately".

Some landladies would have kicked up a fuss, but with an extra set of meals it was money in her pocket. She guessed as the kid had not asked for a separate room it was not just bunking, but it wasn't her business what her adult guests got up to behind closed doors, as long as they did not disturb her or the other punters. Young Alex was not the first kid from out of town to come to London to get lucky, especially if you played for the other team. Being out and proud in a village could be a problem. She knew from the booking Alex lived in North Yorkshire alone. She wondered if his parents had kicked him out for being queer, unlikely as the kid had money.

Malcolm dropped his rucksack upstairs and thanked Alex profusely for his generosity. After a lunch of sandwiches and beer, the pair made their way upstairs. Alex lay down on the bed after removing his trainers. His guest needed no enticement or encouragement to join him on the bed. Alex was glad he had not misread Malcolm's body language, then again he had not been playing coy. The blond haired man leaned forward, touching the cool flesh on the actor's arm and set about the task of seduction. Slow deep kisses aroused them both. Alex smiled and moved south to unbutton Malcolm's jeans to see what prize was hidden by the Levi's.

Alex had missed sex, but decided on caution rather than jump straight into penetration. He was happy to settle for mutual masturbation. Both cocks grasped together with spit slicked palms. Neither man fully undressed. In the sticky afterglow, Alex missed smoking, but he was not tempted to light up. Cigarettes were off the menu, as he could do without the hightened risk of a stroke. His head injury, while not life altering, had been serious enough for him to take stock and consider his long term health.

"Want to share a bath? The tubs quite nice." The double ended, old fashioned cast iron bath was perfect to share.

"This is a nice en-suite."

"I have a dingy small shower room at my house in North Yorkshire, so I wanted something nice this week." Alex turned on the hot tap and then poured in some of the nice smelling body wash provided by Donna for her guests.

Malcolm watched as Alex stripped, pulling off nondescript, off the peg clothes to reveal a slim, toned and scarred body. He wondered on the frottage and what he had read about the kidnapping, torture and rapes. It was likely Alex was not into penetrative sex, or only as a top. As the dark haired twenty-two year old stripped off his own clothes, he revealed his own slim, tanned frame. His agent sent him for roles as teenagers, so far he'd been lucky and done three plays and four ads. He wanted stardom, to make films and to get far away from England as soon as possible.

Alex sat in the bath first, allowing Malcolm to sit next to him and he began to scrub his new lover's back.

"Do you top? Or is sex... errr ... anal sex out?"

"I like to switch. I've known I was gay since I was twelve. I like sex. Really like sex. If you didn't guess from my enthusiasm earlier, I've been celibate for while. I tend to do that. I don't fuck strangers, as in I like to know the person, to have some interaction. I've never just picked someone up for sex or vice versa and then left." Alex did not consider his laison with the actor to be a 'one night stand' as he was here until Saturday. Five days was a proper love affair. "This morning, I liked the fact you caught on about my little ruse. You're a sharp one, Mr. Bletchley." The fact he could see beyond Alex's blank mask made Malcolm Bletchley a cut above the others in that queue.

"No I'm not. I failed my exams, left school at sixteen for a series of shit jobs and for the past three years I've been following my dream by mostly doing the same shit jobs but in London not in Cheltenham."

Alex was bemused as not liking school was perfectly understandable. "I bet you boarded at some shit public school?"

"Yeah, both my brothers were captains of the school sports teams, house captains, went to Cambridge... then me. I felt like an alien or a changeling compared to Des and Martin."

Alex lay back and Malcolm relaxed against him, he automatically wrapped his arms around his lover in a hug. "I hated school. One of the reasons I keep putting off uni. I should be starting, but.. I have a few other avenues to explore first."

The water was warm. He was relaxed. He smiled as he thought maybe another blissful orgasm was likely before Edward and Liz came for dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

Alex woke at 7, in a cocoon of warmth, relishing the fact he was sharing a bed again. His second morning in London, he wondered if it was the sounds of the bustling city that had helped him sleep so soundly or the fact he'd had sex for the first time in months. He looked at Malcolm's messy long dark hair, which was trailed across the pillow. His lover was snoring and still sound asleep, Alex did not have the luxury of sleeping in, he had arranged interviews for this morning. He was moving forward with his life. Making plans, but was realistic enough to know nothing was certain.

After a shower and shave, the tall, skinny, blonde, dressed in a smart grey suit, white button down linen shirt and thin straight, dark blue, tie. All in all, looking very a la mode, Maria would be so proud. He quickly scrawled a note, telling the actor to put any food and drink on the tab downstairs and he would be back around four.

It was breezy as Alex walked north over the Hungerford Bridge, to Embankment to get on the tube to Kensington High Street. As he walked down Kensington High Street for his appointment with the Defence Attache. Alex had thought about Aliyah, to emigrate to Israel, join the Israeli Defence Force and then go to college. In hindsight, he had enjoyed his short time as part of a family after his stay at the Zephrin Clinic. Maybe there he could truly move on from the past.

He was offered tea as he waited, he was tempted to bite his nails as he was a bundle of nervous energy. He honestly did not like interviews and wondered how Malcolm survived the serial disappointment of each failed audition. He guessed the actor lived for his dreams of future stardom. That was the difference between them. Alex lived for his nightmares to end, dreams were for those with hope and faith. He had no illusions that the Israeli's would view him as suspect, as Sergei Rushkov had few friends, but many enemies. His murder had been viewed as a justifiable death of a man who supplied arms to terrorists.

The Defence Attaché walked in and shook Alex's hand. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, not the uniform the teenager expected. "Good morning Alexander. You are looking well."

"Morning Colonel, I have had a good summer, very quiet and peaceful." Alex had requested the meeting to see if he would be welcome, considering his checkered past.

The man looked closely at the boy who had not been back to the embassy since he ran away in 2001. The boy seemed to have settled into a life wandering around Europe since leaving school, until he disappeared from their radar after returning to England in the spring. His letter requesting an interview had appeared out of the blue last week. "We were worried after you seemed to disappear in April."

Alex finished the last of his tea. He had no secrets anymore. His time in seclusion, grieving for Sergei was over. "I bought a house in the country, in Yorkshire near the Moors. Clean air, long walks and a balanced diet have done me the world of good."

The man smiled "Yorkshire? No one here expected that. We feared you had run back to the arms of Cossack."

Alex paused for a moment, holding his emotions in check as he controlled his breathing. "The opposite was true, I ran to ground. I have told none of my old friends where I live. I have surmised it was Yassen who took the shot at me in Paris. His way to make sure I wasn't killed by the bomb that took out Sergei. I suppose he did me a favour, but I don't see it that way. I was in love with Sergei. It may have been stupid and impetuous on my part but our feelings were mutual. Its all in the past now. I have my future to look to. I have thought of returning to Israel, I know I was only there briefly in 2001, but I was happier there than I was back here in England. I hated school and my fostering in Sussex proved to be very short term." Alex looked at the man who seemed to be weighing his words as if sifting for the truth. The young man sighed and wondered if no one would see the real him, not the boy manipuated by either Cossack or MI6 for their own ends. Or was he being too optimistic and would he be drawn in to the world of shadows and lies again. "I'm not asking to work for Mossad. I have no wish to be put anywhere near anything that would compromise Israel's security. I'm just thinking about options for my future. If I were accepted into the IDF, I'd be happy to peel potatoes for three years, or clean toilets. I'm looking for the chance to just be myself without the baggage of my past, which includes my very questionable relationship with Sergei. All I can say in my defense is that I have a poor record on falling in love. I loved Yassen, not a good combination considering I would not, could not defy him. Then, I fell head over heels for a bloody arms dealer. I visited him with Edward thiking he was just a patron of the arts. yes I know I'm a gullible fool. I think Edward was interested in writing an expose, but I kiboshed that."

"As you stated in your letter. You have recently been cleared as medically fit after your serous injury, despite the fact you discharged yourself from hospital in Paris against medical advice. Service in our defence forces requires the peak of physical and psychological fitness. The fact you have survived a serious head injury, which has left you with recurring headaches is enough to disqualify you from service. I know you have skills, we could offer you a post as a specialist, but on discussion with my colleagues we think you should maybe concentrate on going to college. We have many fine opportunities for further education in Israel but you already have a place promised at University College London to read Russian Studies."

Alex sat back, the disqualification from military service he had expected, but it sounded like there were serious questions over him being welcomed with open arms if he emigrated. "I guess I have to prove I'm not a liability. I have no intentions or any means of contacting Cossack. I have no idea why he spared my life in Paris, all I can say is he had a bloody weird way of doing it. Then again, it doesn't take a genius to know Sergei Rushkov was bad news. I was drawn to that, you know, forbidden fruit. He was a lot older than me and in truth he really reminded me of Yassen"

"And still you had an intense relationship with that arms dealer and you are still close to Maria Federova."

"I'm a teenage boy, after everything I felt like rebelling against everyone's advice. Anyway, Maria is my friend, more than that really, she is managing my trust fund. I would prefer she handled it rather than those bastards at the Royal and General Bank."

"I hope you can see our reticence from our point of view. You have no loyalty to Britain. You as a dangerous loose cannon, trained by MI6 then used by Scorpia. If we invited you to join us, we may get our finger's burnt."

"As you say, I have to loyalty to England. I really do not want to spend three years in London. I still think university would be as bad as school. I really hated school at Petrus. I.. I guess I'm barking up the wrong tree for wanting a normal life. I have no plans ever to cross Cossack's path again or MI6's. I now know I'm not welcome to emigrate to Israel as a security risk. I guess you want my passport back. Its not like its relevant anyway, I've changed my surname to Beckett."

Alex then threw the dark blue passport on the table. "There you go, thanks for the help when I was 14, but I guess we're quits. So long and thanks for everything."

This initial interview to emigrate was not going the way he'd hoped. Was he wrong to want a home, one not connected with hurt, betrayal or his awful past?

Colonel Lev Malach handed Alex his passport again. "I forget you are still so young. Rash and impetuous. Talk to the university in London. Emigrating to Israel will not automatically give you a home and stability. Find yourself, find friends, then decide on Aliyah."


	6. Chapter 6

In Hyde Park, Alex sat on a bench and thought back to when he'd chased after Yassen from this very spot. There was no familiar shadow now. The failed teen spy thought back on his decisions to date and smiled at his life path. It was definitely a case of 'Non, je ne regrette rein'. He should get a tattoo saying that. He had a new lover, he had a nice home. He should be happy with that. University, that was his next stop, to talk to the guys at the School of Eastern European and Slavonic Studies at University College London, he still had to be convinced further education was worth three years back in London and the expense. School had been a stepping stone to independence, he was now an adult and completely adrift with no aims and no idea if he wanted to write again. Words eluded him and his writer's block was like he had amputated part of himself. The neurologist could not assure him that his inability to write verse was not an after affect of his head injury. In truth Alex had reread his past scribbles and was appalled with the self centered drivel. If he still had his old notebooks he would have burnt them. Luckily, Edward Pleasure and Anna Mustova were custodians of his old journals. The Editor of Onegin Press had two further volumes prepped for publication and was deaf to Alex's concerns that the work was worthless. She stated sales stated otherwise.

In Bloomsbury, Alex stopped at Waterstones and browsed the small section on Modern Russian Poetry and Prose. There was two further volumes to follow the volume of verse Yassen had sent him. He wondered at the lack of further gifts from Cossack, but that was not surprising as he'd flipped out completely on receiving that particular book of poetry. His thoughts today seemed to keep straying back to his ex-lover, after spending the last six months doing everything in his power to avoid thinking of Cossack and his games. He picked up the second volume and read through words on obsessive love, and loved the flow and rhythm. He then went to browse the main poetry section reacquaint himself with English Poetry and decided to purchase a slim volume by Dylan Thomas. He had been thankful there were no volumes by Alexander Rider, that would have been too embarrassing. Last year he'd been so proud of his work in print, now he cringed at each and every vapid word. He almost itched to carve into his flesh again, scars and wounds that was more meaningful than words. He was glad to pay without any interaction with the young bored teller.

He climbed the stairs to the Russian Department and his appointment with the Lecturer on Russian Culture, Marik Blandford. The young scholar smiled and ushered his guest into the single vacant seat in the small untidy office, "Hello Mr. Beckett, its not a surprise that you changed your name, with all the notoriety from Edward Pleasure's book. You must also get a fair bit of fan mail after your own volumes were so well received."

"Anna deals with all that at the moment. I used to reply in person but the last six months I've been in seclusion." Alex added, a bit unsure of the man being so blatant about Alex himself and not keeping the conversation to generalisations about the course and being a prospective student.

"Still writing?" was asked, a very personal question when Alex would rather be discussing the weather.

Alex pulled at is collar, totally uncomfortable. "Not a sausage since Sergei died. Complete and utter writer's block."

"Ahh, well our language and culture course seems a bit below your standard, you write like you were born in Russia." The lecturer had easily switched to Russian, from his accent he must have grown up there or had a Russian parent.

"I can also drink like a native as well. Not something to boast about. I'm sober... have been for nearly a year." Alex then grinned "Is college like group then? I already have a Phd in fucking up."

"You have passed your interview with that faultless conservation transition. Do you only write in Russian, not at all in English?"

"Maybe I should try as Russian is not working, or maybe I should just rant in Russian and forget lyricism and form." Alex was thinking like rap... 'I hate my life so much right now'.

"What are your long term goals? Translation work? Still writing? Working in the media? Teaching?" The man kept on an on about the future, when Alex had spent his waking hours concentrating on here and now.

"To tell you the truth I'm meant to be finding some sort of happiness and belonging. I still feel unconnected with my friends. I have no family, well no immediate family. I don't think teaching is me at all. Media, forget it. I despise most journalists after the crap that's been written about me, and I would rather never have to do any publicity work again. I write for me not any wider audience and I'm my worst critic. I might look into doing an English degree rather than Russian . The idea of spending a year in Russia was my main reason for applying here last year. Now, I'd rather not. I came today with the intention of keeping my options open, but chances are I won't be starting my undergraduate degree next year and definitely not in three weeks. I really don't want to live in London again. "

The lecturer looked at his notes "I would ask you to reconsider. It would be a considerable feather in the Department's cap to have a published poet study here, but I can understand your concerns. Have you considered part time or home study? The Open University is a possibility or nearer your home. York has a fine English department. I know Edward Pleasure studied there."

"I'm under no deadlines, I think my reticence now means full time further education is not on the cards. I know my friend James is studying in Paris. I can't really compare myself to Jamie as he is the apple of his father's eye and is following in his dad's footsteps taking finance and economics." Alex noted the time. "Could I invite you for lunch, we can discuss better poets than I, consider the newly published Viktor Turgenev perhaps."

...

The tired traveller arrived back at his digs at 4, after a leisurely lunch. It had been stimulating to talk of the comparison with Modern Post-Glasnost Poets and the Soviet era greats. Alex was reminded of discussions on that very subject with Yassen, a man who had left school at 14 and Russia at 16. The great changes in Russian Society had occurred after Yassen had exiled himself. Alex pondered visiting Venice and finding the mysterious Malagosto. Did Scorpia still train there? It was doubtful. No, he was not chasing after shadows of his father's past. He had his own life to lead, even if he spent it living in Ryedale, braving the shops once a weeks and only interacting with his neighbours occasionally.

Alex trudged up the stairs to his room, where Malcolm was sat up in bed reading Edward's crummy book. "When I go back home on Saturday, do you fancy joining me? Only if you have nothing more pressing to do?" Alex wondered if the actor would go back to bunking on friend's floors rather than abandon the gleaming metropolis.

"I'm a country boy. I'd love a little holiday as I've never been to Yorkshire."


	7. Chapter 7

Alex looked at his watch again, three minutes had passed on possibly the most tedious morning of his entire life. He watched the fifth fourteen year old actor leave after their reading. This morning was the auditions for last twenty hand picked hopefuls after two months of searching. Alex wondered what had the others been like. There was thankfully a short break for refreshments after the kid smiled brightly with perfect white straight teeth and left with his mother.

The table was laden with cakes, biscuits, tea, coffee, soft drinks and water. Alex poured himself a black coffee and hissed to Edward "Please tell me you have a hip flask... I need something to distract me from the never ending stream of angelic mini-me's."

"Even if I did, I would not be encouraging you to drink at 10:30 in the morning. You have turned your life around this year, I would think it would take more than a few misguided interpretations to drive you back to hard drinking" Edward stated as he drank his own coffee. "We can have some wine at lunch, a glass should be enough of an intensive to see this tedium through."

Alex thought back to his encouragement of Malcolm the other morning, "What I want to see is the spark of bloody mindedness, will, self awareness and poise. I... I want them to understand loss, hurt and betrayal. I learned all that from Ian, way before the bastard was careless enough to get himself killed. Forget Creepy Herod Sayle or the terrible and beautiful Yassen, I had a lonely childhood where I had to jump through hoops and was the puppet for my Machiavellian bastard of an uncle, may he burn in hell. Happy, happy, beautiful children won't cut it, Edward. How can they possibly reflect me in my fucked up glory. Not unless they want to make this film a PG or a 12 certificate, with a uplifting happy ending. I'm banging a guy I met on Tuesday and have invited him to come home with me, does that sound normal. Most normal people date, become friends, get to know each other. I just fuck."

Edward could smile at Alex's brutal honesty. "You are right on every point. I would suggest you raise the point with Joachim that you think he is making a kiddies film and watch the resulting explosion as you question his artistic integrity. The film is his interpretation of my script based on your life. Its a series of filters not an airing of the brutality you survived"

"The next kid's reading must be good, or I will go out and buy a packet of cigarettes. If he's as bad as the last one forget ciggies, I'll be purchasing some horse instead of tobacco." Alex was only half joking, maybe he should attend a few meetings. He did not want to start on that slippery slope again.

"No you won't, Alex. You promised Sergei. Anyway, you skipped over the fact you knew Sergeo for a month before you became intimate. You dated, got to know him and over the year settled into a deep relationship based on mutual attraction and affection. You fell in love Alex. Its taken you six months to mourn him."

"Shut up with the Better to have Loved and Lost speech. I would give anything to have him back. I admit life in Yorkshire was me liking my wounds, plus I like the solitude. I like Mr. Bletchley because he isn't Sergei, not intense, he might be when acting, but he's so laid back and amenable. He worries about my issues over intimacy when I have no inhibitions. Sex is sex to me." Alex finished his coffee and picked up a can of coke. "I should attend an AA meeting. There you go, Edward, I come to London and getting itchy fingers. The sooner I go home the better."

Number six was bright cheerful and his reading word perfect in a mock sacred tone, reading the scene of Alex's confrontation with the murderer of Herod Sayle. Alex sighed loudly. As the child left the director asked "What is lacking?"

"Under stress, and I know readings are stressful for actors, well I tend to be sarcastic and cheeky. I never backed down with Yassen, even though I knew he was a professional killer. I was scared, but I hid it under false bravado.".

Number seven came in looking bored. "Hi, I'm Alex Petrushkov. I'm 14 and I've done some modelling for Gap and Marks and Spencers and such. Been in a couple of School Plays at Kingston Grammar, where I'm day pupil"

Alex smiled at the kid's defiant stare as he had no professional acting experience.

The teen, would-be actor's gaze was drawn to Alex. "Hi, Alex... I'm glad to meet you. I read your poems in Moscow Literary Review. I write poetry, but mostly in English. I can speak russian a bit as my dad's russian. I used to go visit my babushka in Moscow, but she died two years ago."

Alex liked the kid, who was not all charm and smiles. "Its good to meet you too, Alex. I look forward to listening to you read Edward's lovely script."

The kid frowned, Alex had said the script was Edward's not really what was said or what happened. An actor had been employed to read the role of the 'the kidnapper'. Little Alex spoke the words with a hard defiant edge. The slight south London accent mirrored Alex's own. Alex had developed his in short order to blend in a Brookland, when he started there at 11. Alex listened to the exchange between the two actors, and he corrected the man playing the assassin for the first time. "Dan, no accent, just flat inflection."

Alex looked intently at the pages of script in his hands and listened as a boy and a man played out the confrontation on the helipad Alex had lived through four and a half years ago. The kid was just lippy enough with an edge of wariness and unease. Alex was half way down the page when he closed his eyes, it was as if he could smell the smoke from Yassen's gun, the gurgle as Sayle's last breath was exhaled the coldness of the spring air.

"Alex are you OK?"

The eighteen year old became aware of Edward's concerned voice, the slightly too warm room, the fact there were wets spots on his script and he had been weeping. Alex and Dan were stood looking at him.

"I think I need a pee."

...

Edward Pleasure entered the bathroom to see Alex washing his face. "Shit, Ed. Continue your readings. I'm going to sit out for a bit. I'll get my shit together. I'm sorry I had a flash back there. It been a while since I had one."

"No need to apologize or explain, Alex. Sit out until lunch. Its being catered here. I ordered a bottle of chianti or would you prefer a glass of white?"

"Err... not chardonnay, I'd prefer Sauvignon blanc or Pinot Grigio. If poss. Err.. just a glass. I've been racking up my units this week." Alex wiped his face again. "Alex was good... I was back there. You need a proper London oik."

"And I thought you liked him because he'd read your poems."

"Come off it Edward. The kid was sucking up, big time. I'd have been more impressed if he'd said my poems are a pastiche of post-modern sentimentality."

...

Alex went to stand outside and saw Mini-me Alex there with his mother, arguing loudly. "Mum, I blew it. I must have. He was crying I was so bad. You remember Arthur who was in before me said he yawned through his whole reading."

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression Alex. You were good.. so good I had a flashback." Alex shrugged his shoulders and then opened his can of coke to give himself something to do rather than crave cigarettes or something stronger "I can talk to Edward and Joachim, if you want to read again without me disturbing you."

"Oh, mum, this is Alex Rider.. err alex this is Charlotte Jones, my mum,"

"A Flash back? You never connect its a part in a film, not your actual life experience. I only let Alex read certain chapters of the book. I know he wants to act, but this is not ...I'm not comfortable with the subject matter."

"I was fourteen when these events happened. I ... I've had a bumpy road from there to here. I would like the book to make people think its awful that these things happened to a kid they can relate to. I was such a difficult shit afterwards when I was at Petrus, most of the teachers were detached from the fact I was only acting that way because I wanted them all to leave me alone."

The kid shuffled embarrassed .."I tried out for a scholarship place at Petrus. Didn't get it."

"I was there paid for by some benevolent fund as my dad was an ex-servicemen or something. Do you live in Kingston?"

"Norbiton, near Kingston Hospital... mum works there as an Optometrist."

"Cool... err, I'm off to the shop for some cigarettes. Do you want anything?"

Ms. Jones then opened her handbag and fished out a packet of Marlboro Lights and a Bic lighter "Oh, how rude of me. Cigarette, Mr. Rider?"

"Thanks, I'm gasping." Alex lit up and took a drag. It was just one cigarette. Better that he didn't buy a packet. One was Ok.


	8. Chapter 8

Malcolm rolled over and looked at the glowing dial of the radio alarm, which stated it was 10:37AM. Alex will have been up for hours. He pulled the curtains open and could see the water splashed window pane and grey murky low cloud obscuring the fields and copses. Another fantastic September morning in North Yorkshire he thought, shaking his head, before dressing. The bedroom was not large and he had bumped his head a few times on the eaves by the window. The spare room across the hall was only big enough for a single bed, a room where Alex kept his clothes as he stated he did not entertain guests. This was not what he had envisioned for Alex Rider's rural retreat, but the small two up two down terrace was big enough to the hermit poet. Alex had already lit a fire and the living room down stairs was cosy and warm.

"Morning beautiful. Sit yourself down and I'll make a fresh pot of tea." Alex closed his laptop lid and went into the small kitchen to prepare the beverage for elevenses.

The actor never ate breakfast, but lit up a cigarette. The first one of the day was always the best. He sat down on the small Ikea sofa and basked in the warmth. The house was simply furnished and reflected the fact Alex lived an almost monk-like existence. His only luxuries seemed to be regular trips to Marks and Spencers for decent food. The house was small but without central heating. The small grate in the front room the only source of heat.

Alex emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with tea and slices of fruit cake. "Mrs. H next door left some of her fab fruitcake for us. Seems to be under the impression two lads can't cope for themselves. I've been managing fine since I was kicked out of foster care. You haven't done so bad living hand to mouth as a yet to be discovered actor." The tea service was sat on the small coffee table and Alex knelt on the floor to act as mother, pouring the tea into mismatched mugs, then adding milk.

"I've lived off friends for four years, scrapping by waiting tables and pulling pints mostly. Saying I'm an actor is a bit rich, when I've only had five paying jobs in the art all that time." With a gulp of tea, the dark haired man stroked his stubble, thinking he really should shave. "You are a god send, Alex. You make the best tea. I get sick of brown stewed sludge. This darjeeling is tops. Fortnums?"

"Yeah, a birthday present from Liz, Edward Pleasure's wife. You met her that first evening at the Duke. Wonderful woman, wasted on that journalist. He should worship the ground she walks on." Alex sipped his tea, trying to hide the fact he was horny, knowing that he was likely to have morning, afternoon and evening sex, if the past few days had anything to go by. "I went shopping this morning while you were getting your well earned rest. Not top scran, but enough to get by until Saturday. I thought we might go and be tourists and wander around York and see the sites. Go for Tea in Betty's, maybe go to the cinema or theatre. I've missed that. I used to go a lot, in Chichester and Moscow."

Malcolm wondered on Alex's late lover, the older Sergei. The only mementos of his time with that Russian billionaire were several volumes of poetry, all in cyrillic, the platinum Rolex on Alex's wrist and a real Russian avant-garde watercolour painting on the wall that was probably worth more than the house.

Alex was sprawled on top of his lover, the slow seduction started with a long make out session, kissing, fondling and stroking, when the shrill tones of Malcolm's Nokia broke the magic moment. The dark haired man was flustered but he looked at the number and answered straight away. The blond, sat back and readjusted his clothing around his aching erection. Standing to go into the kitchen to give the actor some privacy. In the pokey kitchen, he put on his coffee pot on the hob for espresso.

The rise and fall of the actor's deep voice stopped and Malcome cme into the kitchen. "I need to go back down to London, I have a screen test tomorrow. Err... do you want to come. They're putting me up in a hotel, paying expenses. I think i might be playing you... This might be my big break, Alex."

All thoughts of coffee were forgotten as Malcolm sweptAlex into a bone crushing hug. "I have a ticket to pick up at Malton station, train at 7:20 in the morning. Car meeting me at Kings Cross to go to Ealing. The Real Ealing Studios, isn't it amazing."

"Super... Great... Err I'll come for moral support, but are you sure you want me there... I might creep out the oposition."

"I'm banking on that. I need this job." Malcolm then looked closely at his lover, not wanting this to be just a fling. "I want you to come, whether I get the job or not. It might be my last visit to London for a while, if I mess this up." In a fit of empathy, he knew Alex was rudderless and needing to find his path. "Lets forget about tomorrow, its just another day. Lets drink the coffee, then go back to where we were before we were rudely interrupted."

...

Rather than go to Ealing. Alex had emailed Mr. Graves, the headmaster at Petrus. Time for some closure over his complete and utter failure to be the model pupil at Sir Charles Fellows idea of a good school. It was a good school, Alex had gotten excellent GCSE results, ones he was sure he would not have achieved if he had stayed at Brookland. The tall gates were still there. You still had to get buzzed in. It was strange seeing the boys all dressed neatly in black and grey. In the hall, there was a small display of famous and accomplished old boys. In the cabinet was his picture and the title of published poet. If Petrus could be proud of a dropout, his life could not be all bad.

It was always uncomfortable sat in the Headmaster's office, even though it was three years since Alex had last graced these halls, he had many an intervention in this very office. The eighteen year had to give the headmaster his due, he had tried hard to help Alex. It was a shame he had been so resistant to conforming and intergrating. Alex would be the first to admit, he still was the ultimate outsider. Now, he was prepared for his apologies and to thank this man for being there. There were a lot of if only's in Alex Rider's past, hindsight was a wonderful thing but it did not help smooth over the disasters in the past. Alex did not regret leaving, but in a small way Petrus had given him some of the tools for survival.


	9. Chapter 9

As he left the school gates, Alex turned south-west to walk back from the City to the West End. It was lunchtime, but Alex had no plans for the afternoon. He had walked through the maze of small streets towards the Embankment for a nice walk along the Thames, when the hairs on his neck stood up, he was aware of a very familiar shadow, the almost silent footfall that haunted his dreams. His face hardened into a frown, he was resolute that he was not playing games anymore. The tall blond broken teen operative turned abruptly, mid step and in a low growl snapped out "No more games, Yassen. You want to talk, we'll talk, but that's it. We'll go somewhere in the open, with enough exits to satisfy even your paranoia. There is a cafe on Carter Lane, we just passed it. So, leave or talk, your choice, Yasha."

Alex wished his heart would stop beating too fast, that his stomach wasn't clenching and churning, for some saliva to moisten his mouth which was suddenly bone dry. Like an automaton, he ordered double espressos, picked out two plates of sandwiches and a bottle of sparkling mineral water from a window seat with a view both Carter Lane and St. Andrew's Hill. The place almost full with a mix of local workers and tourists. With smooth, silent grace a tall, slender man sat opposite him after the waitress had taken the order.

"You look well, Little Alex."

"No thanks to you." Alex exclaimed in a hard, hurt tone.

"Would you have preferred to have been incinerated by the bomb the Russian Federal Security Operatives had placed in Rushkov's car. I had to separate you from that old fool. He sold weapons to the Chechens, made enemies of people with no qualms about killing all in their path, making villages disappear, erasing whole families. I did you a favour, my angel."

"I... I knew you shot me, it was beautifully glancing blow, one as accurate as the scar my father left on your throat. My concussion was from hitting the pavement too hard. I... I milked my convalescence, as my heart was broken. I am a complete fool, as I loved Sergei, but then he loved me. What game are you playing now? Are you my guardian angel?" Alex wanted a cigarette, but had to make do with digging his nails into the soft skin on his inner arms, bruising the bale flesh, drawing blood, enjoying the sharp sting.

"You disappeared... I find you have taken your mother's name, hidden yourself in a hovel in a rural backwater. You have a young lover, an actor. Such a beautiful toy."

"Leave Malcolm alone." Alex hissed. The waitress arrived with food and beverages. Alex happy to drink a large glass of water. He looked hard at Cossack, with his calm handsome face, cold eyes and no hint of any emotion, neither good or bad.

"You went to see the Israeli's... are you going to work for Mossad now?"

"No." Alex laughed bitterly. "I went to inquire about emigrating, serving in the IDF, you know conscription. I do have an Israeli passport... my grandmother, the one born in St. Petersburg was a zionist. Cononel Malach told me to find myself first. He also told me in no uncertain terms I am a medical fail for military service because of the head injury... he did not mention my psychological problems or my bad habits. I'm a mess, Yasha. You're meant to throw your broken toys away. Can't you leave me alone to fuck my own life up."

Yasha watched Alex. The strange mix of hurt and vunerability on show. "Hiding in North Yorkshire is not living your life to your full potential. I think you need to move on, start enjoying life. You have a strange habit of trying to disappear. You cannot hide from your past, you are strong, a survivor. That actor you are fucking is not worthy of you. That shallow boy will break your heart."

"My life... I make my own mistakes. Stop trying to be a parent to me. I'm all grown up now. I cannot be part of your life, except on your terms, I got that at 14, Yasha. You can be my friend, but stop playing games. Definitely leave Malcolm alone. He's not the love of my life, just my rebound. It's a fling. I can have a pretty young thing to keep me company. I will grow bored with him soon enough. He is very vain and shallow." Alex smirked. "Have you never just been selfish and wanted someone just as arm and eye candy."

"I want you to be happy." The Russian warily relaxed and tried to justify himself and his actions. "I feel my life lessons were too brutal, too harsh but I needed to keep you out of this world. I am not a kind man. I taught you as I was taught, bend or break. You can live and love. I will always check up on you."

Alex leaned back on his chair. In another life, if the had met as adults, they could have been partners, lovers. That was not an option. In hindsight, would have working for MI6 have been as painful or as destructive? That was something Alex would never know. He was alive today, able to make choices because of his decision to go with Yasha at 14. "I will see what fiction they make of Edward's book. I will see if I have any family... I have cousins, distant family in Derbyshire and maybe France, Russia and Israel. I will go to Israel, but on holiday. I find I like living in my cottage, maybe I will start writing again, maybe not. Are you still working?"

"I no longer get my hands dirty. I arrange things for others, I am a manager now." Yassen smiled.

Alex excused himself to go to the bathroom and was not surprised that the table was deserted when he returned. Alex sat and finished the water. The waitress looked upset at the uneaten food and untouched coffee. The words "Was everything OK?" trailed off as it was obvious it wasn't.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure everything was wonderful." Alex let out the breath he was holding. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Hysteria was there in the background as if he could breakdown, laugh, cry and scream. He left a large tip and walked to the river.

He texted Maria and then phoned Lisa as he looked at the brown water.

On he train to Arundel, Alex talked briefly to Malcolm. The actor talked of himself and his plans, he had a hectic few days of screen tests and interviews and was actually going to dinner with his manager and agent that evening, so it was probably a good idea Alex was going to catch up with his friends in Arundel. So, he had lied to his lover, not mentioned he was in for 48 hours observation and rest at St. Jude's.

Alex stared at his phone before turning it off. He needed a bit of space, just to figure out if the path he was on was the right one. His urge to inflict pain on himself was so very strong. He had limited himself to the growing bloom of bruising on his arms. This afternoon he had wanted to beg Yassen to take him with him, but he had bit back on his real desire, as Yassen did not want or need a broken man-child.


	10. Chapter 10

For the past two weeks, Alex had danced to Malcolm's tune. Life evolving around the jubilant young man on the cusp of his first 'proper' acting job in film. Alex learned the basics of the craft realised through emotional memory and 'research'. It was all a bit like spying, Alex had also learned how to live as a legend, not so different from acting, only more dangerous. This morning he had welcomed the blissful solitude, as yesterday evening the actor had gone to London, leaving his lover behind at home in Yorkshire. Not that all his waking hours were spent doting on the new addition to the household. Alex had plenty of time to himself as Malcolm slept late and liked a full eight hours beauty sleep. Alex had only slept that long on the few occasions he'd had a skinful of alcohol and additional medicinal help to keep him unconscious. He normally was awake at five. Using the morning to walk as usual, drink tea and potter about.

On this rainy day, time was spent reviewing his course outlines and reading for essay assignments. The teenager was now a part-time student taking a couple of English Literature courses at the Open University, just to earn points in an effort to start further education. It was all very easy, at his own pace and not taxing,and staved off boredom. The introductory level courses were all online and needed no actual tutorials or any human interaction.

The next few months in his diary, were filling with filming commitments, as the debacle of Alex Rider's biography was due to start at the end of the month. Time split between studio shots on sets and a few location shots in London, Czech Republic and Malta, set to wrap after 52 days of principal photography. All over in time for Christmas, not that Alex was bothered about the holiday in question. He knew Malcolm would be going home to Gloucestershire, even if Alex was invited he would make up a prior commitment to stay with Maria.

First of his pressing engagements was going to London to visit his mini-me, the young Alex, to talk through characterisation, motivation and the nitty gritty of his shitty life, or the version of his life dramatised by Edward Pleasure. Alex had an uneasy feeling that all his careful control might go out of the window through prolonged navel gazing. He hated talking of that part of his life, preferring his life now, settled in his small house, where nobody knew about his past fuck-ups. He was poking a festering wound. He could not admit to second thoughts with the great author as this film could make a serious amount of money for Edward. He was in a similar position with Malcolm as the actor had all his hopes and dreams tied into making it big from this stepping stone to the big time. He had confided a lot with Sergei, and that man had no secrets from his assistant Maria. She knew about Alex's past, even if the two of them had not directly had heart to hearts in the past. She would be honest and he was sure she would be unbiased and would have no qualms about pointing him in the right direction.

With one press, speed dial rang the private office of Maria. Alex knew she was free to talk as she already emailed with her concerns and worries about her honorary little brother. More concerned about his rebound relationship with a man he had picked up and started sleeping with, not his underlying mental state.

"Good Evening, Masha darling. You are most perceptive guessing that I'm not going great at the moment. I feel like returning to Russia, to the dacha, to hide."

"Has that actor broken your heart already?"

Alex then shrugged, as it was time to confess it was not love just lust with the actor sharing his home. "No, my heart still belongs to Sergei. Beautiful Malcolm is a nice distraction from my loneliness but it is purely me indulging in pleasures of the flesh and nothing deeper. I probably need to speak with my therapist a bit more frequently. In hindsight, I wish I had never agreed to talk to Edward, now I hate the fact they are making a film about it all. Its not my life, not really. In reality, it was all a lot more complicated. I was a victim of abuse but long before Yassen hurt me. Its all so raw."

"You do not need to have anything to do with that film. You can even withdraw any authorisation of it. For your peace of mind just walk way. I think you need to move on from your brief happiness here. As you told me in May, you need to build your own future. You have a nice home there. Keep studying, try to find your muse again and forget about all that hurt."

"I think Lisa will tell me confronting my fears and being honest about that hurt will help me in the long run. Talking, sharing and honesty does help. I sometimes think my writer's block is all tied into going over and over traumatic events. Sergei's murder, loosing him is still so overwhelming and has been compounded by going over and over my past. No one talks about him here. They are all avoiding the fact the man I had decided to live my life with died. I think its because I'm so young. They all think me dating Malcolm is a positive progression, when there is no future in it. Its not love. There is no connection, no fascination. Sergei loved me so much and I him. I cannot contemplate a relationship like it. He was everything. Malcolm has no desire for long term commitment. Alex knew his lover was still 'in the closet', as he had never discussed his sexuality with his parents and understood that to be a Hollywood A-list star you needed to appear to be heterosexual and completely normal. This fling was to remain very secret. Malcolm's point of view was the complete opposite of Alex's, who he had no problem with being out and proud.

"When the film comes out, Malcolm will be long gone. He aced his audition as he did an almost perfect imitation of me down to every twitch and inflection. I'm staying with Alex Junior and Charlotte next weekend anyway so the kid gets all the same one to one help that Malcolm has gotten. It sounds a bit harrowing for mini-me with such a tight production schedule. I still haven't met the actor playing Yassen. I can't imagine anyone doing justice to lovely Cossack."

"Come and visit me, we can talk over all this filming business. I will timetable a nice week for us in Switzerland in December. We both enjoy skiing and more importantly après-ski. We can both unwind. I hope you are wrong about your lover. You deserve happiness and love, Sasha."

"So do you Maria. All you do is work."

"I am happy with that. Can you say you are happy? If you were you would not be talking to a workaholic spinster living a thousand miles away. You have not spoken to this Malcolm about the truth over Yassen. He still only knows about the official MI6 approved version of events. You are still keeping secrets. You told Sergei the truth. It is you who are not being open and truthful with your friends and your lover. Your therapist talks of honesty and coming to terms with your past, but it is you who are editing your life."

Alex mulled over Maria's words. "The truth is subjective. I told Edward much more than MI6 sanctioned. He guessed a lot about Ian and I think he knows more about Herod Sayle than he put in his book. MI6 are still pulling strings over official secrets. What does it matter anyway? The film is not important. I will do my five Level one courses and I plan to have my Open University Degree done in three years. That is my personal goal. I might even do a teaching course, as I continue to fail at writing I might as well consider teaching."


	11. Chapter 11

"Where are you, babe?" asked the scratchy voice of Malcolm Bletchley as Alex answered his mobile phone.

"Kingston, visiting the Petrushkov kid remember? You should be here too, or are you waiting for the official rehearsals to match up mannerisms and personality flaws."

"I'm at a party, babe. You should be here too. Its so cool. There are a million famous people here and they are all interested in me."

Alex then guessed his lover was that brilliant combination of being both high and drunk. "I'm having a great time here. We just had an excellent meal at the local Indian. The lime pickle was to die for. I'm sorry you have to party alone, but I try not to get tempted anymore. One stint in rehab was enough for me. I start doing charlie and then I'd be smoking horse, which is a brilliant but very bad combination. Don't go down that avenue; remember everything in moderation. No more than five vodkas and one line of snow. You know you're in trouble when you are good friends with five pushers and have them all on speed dial."

"I'm not using, I promise babe. Just a little drunk. I miss you."

"I'll see you on Monday for lunch, its only another day apart." They were due to meet up at the Wellington for a romantic get together.

"I'm burning for you already. See you about 1."

Alec had noted that Malcolm had not called him by his name once on the phone. The guy was quite astute at not being overhead or giving away details. Mobiles were not secure, without a top of the range phone with full encryption scrambler, any conversation could be eavesdropped, not just spies but any with the right tech. Alex had been subject to enough wild stories in the tabloid press to be wary of loose words or getting photographed. His lover was just starting to flirt with that world. Alex had never wanted to be famous and did not understand the press' interest in his misery in the past. He had helped Edward publicise his book, but had said very little during those interviews, just repeating rabbit fashion what the man had written.

…

"How's Malcolm?" Charlotte asked putting a cup of tea down in front of her house guest.

"Fine, more than fine. He's at some party, getting drunk." Alex took a sip of tea. Charlotte's house was a small terrace. Alex was sleeping on couch, in a lovely normal family home. Alex Junior and his mum Charlotte were everything Alex and Jack had not been. This was unconditional love and support, also a healthy mix of tension from a growing teenager and an anxious mother. Alex then wondered if fame would destroy this. "With partying, I've been there and done that. Just a warning to you, I started partying at fourteen and it is an easy way to getting addicted, whether drink or drugs or in my case both. I know your son is way too sensible for all that but keep him grounded when he gets the spotlight of fame. I did some really stupid things. School also sucked, so don't be surprised if his classmates sell him out."

"You had stability in Chichester. You enjoyed college there?"

"Yeah, I wish I had been fostered before Ian died and had a normal childhood. Living with Herod Sayle was a fucking nightmare. That man deserved those bullets. I was seriously fucked up by that man and his friends. Not that I'm saying Ian Rider was any different. He was a nut job as well. My first idea of family was Lotte and Miriam but after fifteen years of shit, having a decent foster placement was too little too late." Alex was actually talking to Charlotte, a woman who had no connection to him but who was willing to welcome him into her home to help her son in his chosen profession of acting. "So, is Alex wanting to be an actor after school?"

"No, its part of his plan to earn enough to pay for university. His father's small monthly contribution barely pays for his clubs and my parent's help pay for school. He realises that money does not grow on trees. He likes modelling well enough but one of his school friends was in a film and boasted that he was made for life. Alex wants to be a doctor and that costs a lot. I was lucky enough to get a grant in the good old days. Now its serious amounts of money even if you live at home."

"Yeah, I'm paying for my Level One courses at the moment. Not cheap, but it would be more if I had gone to study in London. I think I made the right choice staying at home and studying independently."

"Your house sounds lovely. It must be very similar to here."

"Yeah, similar but my house is smaller. I don't have an extension. Your kitchen, and bathroom are nice. I could extend, I suppose. I have enough room in my garden for that. At the moment its big enough for my needs. I am using my extra bedroom as storage, I don't even have a bed in there." Alex then confided "This weekend has been just what I needed. I get so caught up in my own thoughts and insecurities that I was thinking of another stay in clinic, when all I need is good old fashioned chat. I lost most of my friends when I dated Sergei. I get that they were concerned about our relationship. Thinking he was a controlling abusive bastard. He was a lot older than me, but we clicked. It was good. I really miss him. I have been very difficult to get hold of since I bought my house in Yorkshire. Edward left me a gazillion messages with Maria, my friend in Moscow. I guess I've been hiding but I've kept my promises. I'm still clean. I have actually started my degree, keeping with my goals."

"So, none of your friends liked Sergei."

"Well, Edward introduced us. He and Liz have been supportive, but we aren't that close. I was having problems with Tom, my best friend from Brookland Comp, after he went off to Army College in Harrogate. His game plan is to be career officer and gentleman, probably at Sandhurst now. I was closest to James. I turned up at his place off my head last September. Then I went back to Sergei at Christmas. He thought I was making all the wrong choices. I admit we had both been hot and cold. Neither of us prepared for commitment and actually living together long term. We were getting there. It was good. I found home and happiness. Now, I have it on my terms and no, Malcolm is not looking for long term. It just is what it is. Fun, no strings, its not long term. He's a butterfly, in a few months he'll find someone new. He won't break my already broken heart. I have to explain to your very level headed kid what a complete mess I was at fourteen and fifteen. I thought a bastard contract killer was brilliant and cool. I was not normal, not evenly remotely sane. Never mind all that crap about Stockholm Syndrome, anyone rescuing me from my life then was OK in my books."

Charlotte pondered that and then thought on her own life changing between school and becoming an adult, living on her own in Cardiff. "Its quite normal for your life to change after you leave school. You do change friends. I made all my close friends at university. Thats where I met Pyotr, Alex's dad. That was a full on passionate obsessive love and a complete disaster. I would not change a second though, I have my beautiful baby."


	12. Chapter 12

On Sunday morning Alex watched his new friend and soon to be fourteen year old copy, play football. Charlotte was enjoying a lie in. The kid had introduced him as a distant cousin from Russia, not wanting to let on he was to be in a film about Alex Rider. Alex was happy to introduce himself as Aleksandr Sharikov, taking his maternal grandmother's family name for this ruse. His family history was littered with premature deaths. All his grandparents decreased before his birth. He knew that his grandmothers family had lived in Paris before World War II. He guessed they had all been deported east to certain death as Russian Jews. He had no real interest in family history as the Sarikov's, the Beckett's and the Rider's were all long dead. He may have cousins alive somewhere, but the strongest connection to his past was still Yassen Grigorovich, another who had no family and had survived horrors. Alex pulled out a note book and started to write down all ne remembered of Yassen's home; Estrov, a non-existent town in Western Russia, only home to ghosts. It was prose not poetry, written in short sharp concise English not rich and emotive Russian. It felt cold and hard describing the elimination of an entire village; men, women, children, livestock, vermin and pets. The whistle blew and Alex was dragged away from Soviet brutality to the reality of suburban south-west London.

Little Mini-me ran up to Alex, dirty and sweaty, happiness radiating from the young soccer player. Alex could remember the same carefree enjoyment from football games when he was thirteen.

"Excellent game, you are a brilliant defender. My friend Tom played on the left wing. He probably still does. You must be starving."

"I am. Mum texted. She'll meet us at the Clarence, Sunday Lunch there is brilliant."

Alex wondered if they did alternatives, thinking back to hateful lunches at school. The teen, pulled on a sweat shirt and continued "I always have the lasagne and garlic bread. They also do a great veggie cannelloni."

As the older Alex put his notebook in his pocket he relaxed now lunch would not consist of slabs of meat in congealing gravy. "I think I'll join you and have italian."

…..

Rehearsals were timetabled and Alex returned home. He would see darling Malcolm at the weekends. His journal was filled with descriptions of morning walks and his observations on his neighbours. The young writer even spoke short conversations with the locals he passed and was recognised with nods and hellos when he went shopping in Malton. It was all so different than Chelsea, it reminded Alex of his visits to Arundel. Sort of home, not quite happy but not sad. This was a calm peaceful existence, but Alex did not yearn for excitement or danger.

It was a cool and wet Sunday morning. He was alone and Malcolm had not sent any apologies for not coming or any communication in days. The young actor was caught up in being popular and enjoying the other side to London. No more starving, penniless unknown, Mr. Bletchley was in with thew in crowd.

In his A5 journal, Alex returned to read the five lines of verse he had written in English, not Russian. It was short, far too brief, but he did not want to add to it. It seemed to be he perfect epitaph to his prose on Yassen's childhood.

I am ash in the bottom of a cold grate.

You were the fire that engulfed me;

Burning bright: beautiful and deadly.

The embers are long gone, I was consumed in the inferno.

I am ash in the bottom of a cold grate .

He wondered what Sergei would make of it. He sent an email to Maria. His scribble had no title. He put no explanations to this short piece of poetry describing grief. He hoped by sharing this, his first written piece in months of crippling writer's block, would lead to a more prolific period of word craft.

Within ten minutes the extremely busy business tycoon had emailed back. 'Send this to Mr. Pleasure. I think its beautiful. I miss Sergei like that too.'

Alex then answered 'Blame Shakespeare and his 'better to have loved and lost'. All I feel is loss, it has consumed the love that was. All that was is now in shadow. I miss Moscow, Nice and you. Love Alex.'

He then switched off his laptop and this morning he would not walk but run, on the top of the hill in the mist and murk he would go through his katas. No longer would he be weak and lazy. It had been over four weeks since his last headache. Then he would send a letter to Tom. He had no official address or any idea where his friend was stationed, but Jerry would hopefully pass the letter on.

Splattered with mud and insanely up from endorphins, Alex arrived home to see a bedraggled Malcolm sat on his step. "I hitched, I won't be doing that again. A day and a half to get here; and I had to walk from Old Malton."

Alex let them both in and being a gracious host allowed the wet and exhausted guest to use the small bathroom first to freshen up. The only reason for such an awful, protracted journey was that the young actor was again flat broke. Non-stop partying had a nasty habit of emptying your wallet really, really fast.

The dark haired actor left the bathroom wrapped in clean towels. "I have ten days break. Which means I either go home or crash here. Can I?"

Alex stood his ground, not giving in straight away and let the green-eyed monster out to play. "Did your girlfriend kick you out?"

Flushed and looking admonished the actor tried to shrug off his distant behaviour. "Come off it, Alex. Nina was just a bit of fun. A good friend like that Russian model you hung out with in Paris."

"Funny, none of the many articles written about my bender in Gay Paris speculated about a possible engagement. I saw some lovely bits of Jackanory in Mrs. Hooke's Hello." Alex was pulling Malcolm's leg, as the stories had a grain of truth, but sometimes you had to sift through a lot of bullshit to get to it.

"Twat, you know the gutter press and the gossip mags print what they want. I can't wait until the filming starts, then with that pay check I can get a flat and not have to rely so much of friends and acquaintances."

Alex moved past his lover who was digging a hole for himself, with his bed hopping lifestyle. The blond was very happy to have insisted on safe sex. God knows how many people Malcolm had shared his favours with in the past few weeks. He stood in the shower, under the warm intense spray and laughed, being jealous was such a complete waste of time. They weren't even dating. There was no way Malcolm would ever consider moving in and living in rural obscurity. They were both too different. the sad fact was that Alex would never attempt to go on the pull in Malton. He needed a push in the right direction about relationship and Malcolm Bletchley was his rebound.

Alex dressed in clean clothes before steeping into the kitchen. Malcolm had made himself at home and tea had been brewed and biscuits found and put out on a plate.

The cheerful guest then announced "Elevenses darling!"


	13. Chapter 13

Alex was back staying at his favourite pub on Waterloo Road, tonight he was going out to dinner with Edward and Liz Pleasure. He had been couriered the script and had stopped reading after two pages, trying to calm himself as he had the first panic attack in over three months. Forcing himself to take three quick sharp, deep breaths then a long slow exhale. Who the hell thought opening a film with his worst nightmare was a good idea. Even after a shit load of therapy he felt like vomiting at the thought of that awful day and the dark cold tank of water, minutes from death by drowning. Even the fact Yassen had relented and pulled him out brought no comfort or reassurance. Life was like that, survive one god-awful situation to get directly thrust into another. He looked at the tasteful room and squashed the urge to destroy its minimalist simplicity. Situations like this were made for phone a friend, at nineteen he could still call on his old standby at St. Jude's for a lifeline, his days as a teenager were drawing short, where would he go next when he could not cope or needed a time out?

On speed dial, the receptionist at the Centre Specialising in Teenage Mental Health Issues, picked up after two rings. "Good Afternoon, St. Jude's. How can I help you?"

"Can I please speak to Lisa, its Alex Rider. I've been in for three stays in the past, I think I might need to come in again."

"I'm sorry, Lisa is not in today. I'll put you through to our team leader, Suzanne."

Alex had met Suzanne at his placement meetings, the woman who had set up, financed and fund raised for the centre for twenty plus years in memory of her long dead twin brother, naming the centre after the Patron Saint of the Hopeless Causes and the Desperate or Impossible Situations. He listened to the soft light music as he was placed on hold and he was tempted to cut the line and just go running. Not for fitness, but the ideal he had of cross country runs at Petrus, which he had been barred from.

"Afternoon, Alex, what's your problem and where are you? Do you need picking up?"

"I… I just had a panic attack, not a major one, but… this film is a monumental mistake. Its dragging over and racking up the muck of my life. I have dealt with his shit and I still feel powerless… alone and in turmoil. Its all the worse since my accident in Paris, I no longer have the release of writing verse. I… need to not talk… I need something to help distance myself from the mess. I have lost my coping mechanism and I need a new one. Writer's block is shit, I have been assured by the neurologist its not permanent brain damage, so that means its psychological. I need this sorting and I'm 200 miles from my therapist and staying in London. My time calling on you when I fuck up is almost over, so I need a new safety net. Suggestions please are needed."

"You sound like you are coping find and relating to this transition from teenager to adult mental health services with great maturity and aforethought. You have the choice of a call to the Priory and get an emergency referral appointment or you could try Terrance Pritchard, he has a practice now on Harley Street."

"Have you got the Major's number, I'll ring him. So, you recommend the Priory if I need a few days R&amp;R?"

"Yes, due to the Press, most only think of it as a Celeb's spa and rehab facility. Google it, its a top clinic with skilled and understanding staff. Call me, if you have any problems. This is my personal mobile number…"

…..

At five, he was sat in a small reception area for the ex-Army Psychiatrist. White and modern, the tank of tropical fish reminded Alex of trips to the dentist. Rather than watching the brightly coloured fish, he was mesmerised by the bubbles of the filtration unit. The receptionist, Allegra, was cheery and efficient. Alex had a glass of cooled San Pellegrino to drink. At £350 for your initial session you were well cared for.

"Hi, Doc… Thanks for seeing me a short notice."

"Suzanne called me, just after you made your booking. I'm happy to see you anytime you're in London, we also can offer telephone counselling, so call the team here as you need it. The good news is, as you are a patient of mine from my previous employment, its only £150 for the session today."

"Cool… well, lets get started."

…

Alex was calm and collected as he got ready in double quick time for his evening out. Thankfully talking to Doc Pritchard had made him realise that he was acting like a prima donna and making a mountain out of a molehill. The script and the film should be treated as 'fiction' and was not one but four or five steps away from his real thoughts and feelings over everything; which had been already rationalised and talked through. He did not have PTSD and was not in need or any medication. The panic attack was a one off, Alex using breathing exercises had kept it all under control. He was dressed and took a taxi to the Chelsea Riverside Brasserie.

Even with his last minute therapy session, he was still early. In the bar, he ordered a sparkling water and a snack of olives, having missed lunch. Exactly on time, Liz Pleasure arrived dressed in a classic Jean Muir Vintage dress and simple black court shoes, her dark hair touched with only a few strands of grey in an elegant braid. The woman still stunning approaching fifty. She smiled warmly when she noticed Alex. "Evening, darling; I hope I'm not atrociously late?"

"A lady is never late. Where's that husband of yours? Has he stood you up?" Alex quipped, Edward was going to get a ribbing tonight for nor escorting his wife.

"The usual, tying things up in a meeting with his editor over a new book. I think he'll arrive in his rumbled shirt and slacks, I should expect nothing less, he's always been the same".

"He should treat you like a queen. Would you like a cocktail or some champers?"

"There must be a reason to celebrate something, I feel like champagne but only if you have a glass as well." Liz felt like getting tipsy and eating desert, she would worry about the calories tomorrow.

"Lets get merry before your boring husband arrives and dominates the conversation with his work woes. Lets celebrate the fine art of divination and the hope I meet a tall dark stranger who sweeps me off my feet." Alex then ordered a bottle of Louis Roederer. Having already arranged to pick up the tab.

The beautiful older woman sipped the cold perfection and "Umm, to all tall dark strangers, then. I take you and Malcolm are no longer an item then. I had wondered since he has been at three premieres, each time accompanied by a different model."

"I have to say, I love him to bits, but he's a free spirit. He has no concept of mutually inclusive and it was a lovely fling, but that was all it was ever going to be. He was a ray of sunshine, not the sun, moon and stars." Alex then sighed. "To think filming is starting on Monday. I promised to help Alex with all the water scenes, which are timetabled first. Then I can go back home. I need to relax and nothing to do with my life then is relaxing."

At nearly eight thirty, Edward turned up with a tall stranger and a petite blond. The pair were introduced as Geraint Evans and Cissy Darling. Both actors, the man cast as Yassen, the woman cast as the amalgamation of the several psychiatrists Alex had seen over the years.

Geraint was a respected fire brand on stage, nominate for awards for a mini-series and a close friend of the director. "I can see you think I'm totally wrong to play Yassen, but I beg you hold off your critique until you see me and my interpretation. Its always easier to play real life representations if you meet and get to know the man. I got a friend of mine to translate your poems from Russian into Welsh. Both are very poetic languages. Your words have been my inspiration for not a villain or monster, but a man; flawed and oh so very human."

Alex pondered this. "Mimic Alex, playing the younger me. There are major similarities between me and Yassen. Twins almost, we had very similar experiences at fourteen. He survived horrors in Russia before becoming a killer for hire. As Edward has suggested in the past, my uncle Ian and Herod Sayle were abusive and I was fucked in the head long before Yassen did a number on me."


	14. Chapter 14

The actual start of filming was completely alien to the reclusive long distance student, who did not even own a TV, watch DVD's or go to the cinema. Each scene was divided, splitting conversations, interactions and moments in his life in small disjointed snippets filmed from a dozen to a hundred times. It was great seeing young Alex and Geraint interact, both in real life and acting. The Welshman taking to heart all the directions nineteen year old 'advisor' had told him to follow and making this Yassen and the movie version of the kidnapped kid mould together for the reality of intensely close, intense relationship.

The three days working with the dive crews had been stressful in the extreme. In some ways it had confronted Alex with his continuing fear of water, helping him rationalise and cope with his own nightmares as it was easier to step away from the trauma as the filming had been done in a huge tank on a brightly lit soundstage. The wonders of cinematography meant the rushes mimicked the dark tank, when it was nothing like it in reality.

On Friday, all were watching the rough cut of the few scenes after a week of filming. The images of fear and panic in the water tank, dark and so like Kiev. Alex freaked out enough to leave the darkened screening room immediately, go back to his hotel and start packing to go home. Donna was sad to see him go, but was sure the room would be rented out again by tomorrow.

He knew there was a train at 21:00 to York, and he'd get the last bus connection to Malton. He texted Mini-Alex to say his performance was utterly brilliant and to email him if he needed anymore help.

When the train pulled out of King's Cross on time, Alex relaxed. He had bought a Whopper meal and had tucked in as soon as he sat down, much to the disgust of the other passengers in first class. The steward serving complimentary teas and coffees asked to see the scruffy teen's ticket, so someone must have complained. He was wearing worn jeans, one of the few items of charity shop clothing to survive Maria's cull. He was also wearing a frayed and well washed sweatshirt, complete with a stain from lunch today. An item bought this summer, as he was back doing most shopping from the unwanted items donated for a good cause. He watched the spooky countryside slide past, illuminated in the moonlight. After the stop in Grantham, he got a text from Edward but ignored it. He was not needed as an advisor, he had only been there to help the his fourteen year friend settle in on his first film. Neither the producers, director or Edward had asked him to do any publicity, so he had no reason to return to the farce of being a pseudo-celebrity. He had no coursework to do as his next module started after Christmas.

….

In the early November sunshine, Alex sat on the isolated bench with its beautiful view of the Vale and the Moors. He was resting after completing a full set of Katas, for the first time in over a year. It had been a hard slog to get back up to his former black belt proficiency. This was home, even in complete solitude he wanted for nothing, no even missing his ex-boyfriend. Alex was enforcing the isolation as he kept his phone off except for an hour after 5 when he had text chats with his younger self, Alex Petrushkov. The teenager ecstatic to be travelling to Slovakia and Malta for the location shoots. Alex had travelled enough during holidays with Ian, the whole idea of going on holiday now made him feel slightly nauseous. After five minutes his breathing had evened out, and he jogged slowly the mile home.

Post awaited him on the mat when he got back to his cottage and including a packet from Moscow. The covering letter from Masha told him to give his address to his friends rather than having her office act as intermediary. It seemed that Malcolm was keeping quiet about the fact he'd visited and knew exactly where the elusive Alex Rider now lived. The actor comfortable to be firmly in the closet to ensure his slim chance of super stardom. Letters from Joachim and Edward asking after his health and well being after he had walked out of the screening of the rushes.

There was a fifty-fifty chance Edward would not pick up his phone, if he called him and the man never seemed to acknowledge voicemails, if you bothered to leave them. On the fourth ring, the screenwriter picked up. "Thank God you called, I've been trying to contact you for over a week. I ended up emailing Maria in deparation. Please let me know you're OK?."

"I'm fine, Edward. I left a bit abruptly, but I was only there for Mini-Alex anyway. He's a wonderful actor, isn't he. Much better at being me than me. I have to apologise that my phone has been left switched off, so I could enjoy complete solitude this week. I've not been in the mood for surfing the net. I had a couple of panic attacks in London. All that has been discussed in a couple of additional sessions with my therapist Jean. Life's easier here, nothing to trigger memories about all those things I'd rather not remember or get tempted into being a very naughty boy. My life plan is to avoid the slide back into harmful behaviour and depression. I promise I am managing. By the way, I'm off to Wales next weekend. Talking to Doc Prichard last week has put me back in contact with Sergeant Dixon. I'm visiting him to go hill walking and some other holistic stuff. The Sergeant has retired from the Army and runs at a health retreat doing nature walks, yoga and meditation." Alex had paid up for the full board retreat at the farm in rural Monmouthshire. He had pondered on the contradiction of how the gruff, no-nonsense Yorkshireman was running a frankly hippy retreat. "How about I text you my address and my therapists details. If you really need to get in contact, text me. I always answer Mini-Alex's texts. Disjoined conversations re my speciality now, more usual for me than actually talking" Alex was being truthful, he felt that the book and film were just raking over the past. He had moved on, he much preferred being alone in his small cottage to London anyway. "So, tell me all about the rest of filming…"

…

Alex had initially been upset at the unexpected present from Maria, a nearly new car that had been delivered yesterday afternoon. He really did not need a car, but the Mini Cooper was absolutely wonderful. For some reason Masha disapproved of his motorbike. He had planned on hiring a car for the weekend and had emailed his friend to tell her about his holiday as all purchases or cash withdrawals over £50 had to cleared with her first. Over the past few months, he had spent a lot on train fares and taxis; but after his trip to South Wales he had no travel plans at all. The black car with white roof was standard specification and was nippy, fuel efficient and fully insured. That alone was likely to have cost a small fortune. His bike was insured for third party fire and theft and that was expensive enough and paid for directly out of his bank account, not through his trust fund accounts.

On Friday lunchtime he was packed and ready to leave, plenty of time for the journey to South Wales, when there was a knock on the door.

The familiar face of the handsome young actor was stood on the stoop.

"Afternoon Mr Bletchley, is your filming finished?"

"Yeah, might be reshoots at the beginning of December, but my bit of principal photography is done. So, I thought I'd come and see how you were doing?"

With the faxt Alex was stood by his packed rucksack and the truth of the matter that he was not going to change his travel plans and he was not going to offer that Malcolm join him for his retreat. "I'm actually going away for the weekend . You're welcome to stay, if you need a place to crash."

Malcolm looked a bit dejected that his plans for a weekend with his on and off lover was a definite off. "Oh, right. Where are you going?"

Alex grinned " Three days of holistic therapy with a bunch of hippies in Wales, near the Brecon Beacons."

"Can you drop me off in Gloucester? Might as well visit the parents. Tell them the good news that I have three more films lined up. "

"I'm more than happy to give you a lift. Get in and tell me all about your new roles."


	15. Chapter 15

The trip south-west had been filled with laughter and conversation as the ex-lovers morphed into friends. Alex learned that Malcolm had actually travelled north to let him down gently as the actor was getting serious about his current girlfriend. So, his actor friend was actually more thoughtful and not as shallow as the driver had first assumed. It was quite a big deal as Alex had considered them ex-lovers long before the film started shooting, the fling had laster a lot longer than those few days in London in September and had proved that he was also maturing and moving on from love and loss.

Outside of the small village of Aston Ingham, the black Mini pulled into the long gravel drive of a detached Georgian villa with pristine gardens. Alex craned his neck at the wonderful shrubs, flower beds, mature trees and pristine lawns, like a picture perfect image of a proper English village. "Bloody hell, this is smart. Your parents have a smashing house."

The twenty three year old passenger sighed, he knew the house looked magical, but there had been strict rules for conduct at home, which had seemed like chains to Malcolm as a child and teenager. "My mother's a freak about cleanliness and being neat and tidy. Completely fanatical about the garden. I can stand staying for about three days max. My father isn't much better. He thinks I should be a trader or banker, not a nancy boy actor. Can't wait until I tell him I've made 50 grand for two weeks work. My next film will come with a pay cheque over three times that. By next summer I'll be able to buy a nice cottage like yours as a getaway. Naomi has a nice flat in Clerkenwell for when I'm staying in the big smoke." Malcolm sat for a moment after the car had parked up and Alex had switched off the engine. "You're a great bloke, Alex. Thanks for the lift and well being a brilliant friend. I think that Hostage/Terrorist will be a great film, not a massive hit, not when Joachim is already having editing problems. He wants it to be very shocking, extremely violent but not explicit or pornographic. He suggests the sexual relationship with looks, gestures, touches and sound. Your mate Alex is very good and I'm completely in awe of Geraint, I've learnt a ton about the craft from him." The conversation stilled as the front door opened. "Look sharp Rider, here comes mummy."

Alex got out as a very smartly dressed, dark haired woman woman approached.

"So, my prodigal son has returned. It is common courtesy for you to ring ahead to prepare us for your arrival, Malcolm" She then turned to coolly appraise the stranger, "Are you going to introduced your friend? I take it he's staying as well."

Alex thought it was weird for the man four years older than himself to be dressed down so effectively, leaving the actor speechless. "Good afternoon, Mrs Bletchley. I'm Alex, Alex Rider. I'm just dropping Malcolm off. I'm off to spend the weekend in Wales."

"Oh you're the boy, Malcolm was playing in that film. I suppose you were some sort of consultant for the production." The woman had crossed her arms and looked quite sour at her youngest son's friend.

"I sat in on a couple of scenes. Got to know Malc really well before rehearsals started. " Alex then moved to get back in the car, knowing he was not welcome to stay and actually felt sorry for his friend for his very frosty reception. "Well, I best get on my way. It's been lovely to catch up Malcolm. Please drop by anytime when you're in my neck of the woods. Give my love to Naomi, she's one lucky lady for getting her claws into you, handsome. Ciao and see you soon around. Goodbye Mrs Bletchley."

When he got out of sight, Alex texted his friend 'If things are really stilted, come to Llanvihangel Crucorney and hang out with us hippies. My friend, a retired SAS Instructor is far more welcoming and charming than your mother!'

…

Valley Farm was a large stone built farmhouse, with two converted barns providing communal space and guest accomodation, set in rolling green countryside. It was dark when Harry Dixon noticed the car drive up and park. Alex was over two hours late, but not too late for supper. Luckily his partner, Glenys, had planned a late buffet for his young friend.

Startling bright light flooded the approaching car from the security light, illuminating the front yard. Alex got out to see Harry with almost exactly the same regulation haircut except he was no longer wearing khaki, but jeans and a plaid shirt.

"Good to see you, Alex. I'll get your bag. Come on into the kitchen, its cosy and warm. Glenys is out at WI and will be back after 8. How about a nice glass of real beer. Brewed at Tintern. Guaranteed to put hairs on your chest."

Alex had never really thought of the Sergeant at Special Forces Training as the type to marry or settle down, but here he was gushing about his Glenys as he opened two bottles of pale ale. "She's survived breast cancer and a bastard of an ex-husband. Arsehole used to beat her up. This retreat is mostly about self help and empowerment. We get a fair few bookings just for my hikes and nature rambles. Glen is into Yoga, Pilates and Holistic approaches to health and well being. She's also mostly vegetarian, but is a stickler for proper nutrition. All the food grown here is organic, we keep hens for eggs and I really do not miss Army food."

Alex smiled "That's one thing I completely agree with. That and hospital or school food. My cooking skills aren't great but I get by. I stick to my meal plans after my stint in hospital in Oz. Sergei drummed into me that I was being really stupid by not eating right and being a dick in general because of my control issues."

"You must miss him so much." The middle aged man sat and looked at the genuine sadness cross over Alex's face.

That simple statement of sympathy was been one of the few heartfelt expressions of empathy over Alex's loss and grief. Maria, Edward, Liz, Michael and Olga had been the only ones to acknowledge that Alex had lost his significant other. "Every day, I miss him. I get that most people did not like him or thought our relationship was abusive. We were both complete loners, neither of us looking for love or companionship. It was a long hard slog for us both to realise that we were, in fact, in love and with that came commitment, consideration and cohabiting. Sergei was the one who changed his life to accommodate me. It was brilliant and intense, but far too short. My instincts were to stay alone protect myself and that I was a fool to stay. More than one person told me to steer clear that he was bad news, but he saw through my masks, broke through my barriers and showed me that I could love and be loved. Its so different from anything I have experienced before. I would give everything I own, to have him back."


	16. Chapter 16

It had been several months since filming had wrapped and Alex had the occasional text from Edward, as the man spoke of post production process of editing and the adding of music and titles. The movie was nearly complete, down to the directors final tweaks. Alex had finished his first year of his Open University degree and the summer holidays had passing very quickly. He had chosen his courses for his second year and was well on with his reading. He no longer tried to write, as the verse did not come. The student occasionally noted pictures of his ex, Martin, on the covers of the tabloids or the gossip mags, but their fling had been just that short and bitter-sweet. The actor had several high profile liaisons with models and was now dating his co-star on some sci-fi epic being filmed in Australia. The popular Mr. Bletchley was on his fourth film and appeared to love the limelight, having moved into the LA home of said girlfriend.

Alex could honestly say he was content, neither happy nor depressed. He was just living day to day. He was sure if he really thought about it living in the back end of nowhere was avoidance and denial, but here he had made his home.

…

Joachim de Valera was spanish by birth but his father had been a career diplomat and he had gone to High School in New York and attended film school there. He was bilingual. He had made adverts and two small independent films in Spain and this was his first film with a fairly big budget and guarenteed international distribution deal without having to attend film festivals to broker deals. If he had read his map right, the small cottage where Alex lived was just up this small lane on the right. The brick two storey building was tiny and looked unaltered. Its neighbour had extended to the rear and side to be a decent sized family home. The door had pealing paint and the house sign was faded but still readable, No. 2 Laundry Cottages. No bell, so the spanish director knocked on the door and waited to see if Mr. Beckett was home. He was about to leave a note, when Alex walked up.

"Mr. de Valera?"

"Hi, Alex… its Joachim remember. I'm here to invite you to a screening. Geraint and his wife, Kay are staying with friends near Helmsley. It a small house party, I'll be showing the final cut and you're welcome to join us." The tall spaniard was unsure if Alex would come. He had not attended the wrap party and according to Edward had refused to go down to London again. He wondered if the reason for that was heartbreak over his ex, the two timing actor Malcolm Bletchley. The young student's hair was still short and he now sported a trimmed beard, making him look older than nineteen.

"You better come in. I'll make you a coffee then I can get changed out of my running stuff."

Upstairs, Alex pondered his small pile of clothes. Jeans, shirt and a jacket, smart/cas, sounded about right for watching a film at a friend of a friends house. He took the items down stairs and went to shower.

The Director got a close look at the pieces of art in the living room and several first editions of poetry by Russian greats. There was a digital radio but no TV. He could bet the computer was used for his college work and no video games were played on it.

Alex sank into the bucket seat in the TVR Chimera. "Nice car, is it a rental?"

"No, it's Geraint's. He has a garage full of two seater pocket rockets. Soon, he will have to re-evaluate his collection considering his wife is seven months pregnant. Feel free to joke about Volvos or SUV's when we get there. He looks quite ill at the thought of driving something so boring."

"I bet he'll end up getting a Range Rover. You can really push them and they're built like tanks." Alex added as he gripped the sides of his seat. The sports car was thrown around the tight bends on the narrow roads across the Vale of Pickering.

Geraint's friends were also actors, ones he had gone to RADA with, but from landed money unlike the Welshman, who hailed from middle class south Wales, but whose extended family had been steelworkers.

Ben and Laura were lovely and welcoming. A happy family home with their three children were already tucked up in bed. Wine was open and all were looking forward to the private screening. They had a large comfortable family room with huge TV and integrated sound system for that home cinema experience. Alex sat with a can of coke to see what bollocks had been fashioned from this fictionalised account of his life story.

Alex held his breath as the scene opened with that dark tank and the young actor pleading and begging between shocked cold gasps. The titles were over a montage of group sessions, drug taking and self harm attempts and bleak views of his stays in clinic. Then his older representation talking to Edward about a life reduced to talking to shrinks and about Yassen. All in the room were silent, no one talked or joked while Geraint shot the actor playing Herod Sayle. It was non-linear and very brutal and uncompromising.

As the last scene rolled, the titles started with his own voice reciting his own poem on longing and recorded without his knowledge by Edward last November. He got up abruptly and made a hasty exit to the small downstairs bathroom in the hall. He washed his hands and face twice as a stalling tactic as he tried to form the best exit strategy. It was only 10 miles back home, he could jog that in an hour twenty, but he was wearing the wrong clothes. The walk to the pub in Nawton would take an hour, then he could get a taxi. No, running, that was completely out of order, he was a guest and the film was a good effort. The first film he'd watched really since he was a kid. He only watched opera, documentaries, ballet and the news in Russia. He then spoke to his reflection "Absolute fucking freak ain't you, Rider." He wanted to break the glass and use the broken shards to carve into his skin. Again he was washing his hands.

There was a gentle knock, "You OK in there, Al?"

"Fine… super… spectacular… wonderful" were muttered under his breath as dried his hands and then opened the door. "It was a mistake to watch any of that, but I detest the ending."

The actor's brow furrowed, " What? The end scene in Russia which is meant to signify you moving on? It was stunning beautiful. Wasn't it?"

"No, the fucking shit poem. I could kill Edward for recording that… its shit… everything I ever wrote is shit. I'm just a self absorbed, navel gazing sad sack who can't move on. Its stagnation… my life is avoidance and denial. I'm not coping… ending that film suggesting that I'm moving on is complete and utter bollocks. It's all lies…. I'm a freaking nutcase. "

Alex needed release somehow, pain was his only option. He pulled at his sleeve, breaking the button at the cuff and the Welshman put his hand gently on Alex's arm to stop him being impulsive. "Come back into the kitchen, talk to us. Tell us why that poem is bugging you, because its obviously more than it just being sub-standard. The poem is good; pacing, language and content were all reviewed as excellent as confirmed by a friend of mine… he's a journalist in Moscow and has a Russian mother."

With a hug of reassurance, Alex was coaxed back from his desire to go it alone and do something stupid enough to get thrown back in the loony bin. As he entered the cosy hub of the home, his face broke into a completely fake, hollywood smile; all teeth and no genuine mirth or happiness "Time for group, everyone's favourite way to get to the heart of why I feel like a) murdering Edward Pleasure at this precise moment and b) doing a serious amount of self harm on my person."

Both ladies then looked seriously shocked. Laura then stood to pull out the carver closest to the Aga. "Sit, I'll get my secret chocolate supply… My kilo of Godiva Pralines I hoard for my time of the month or situations like this. Ky put the kettle on, make a pot of tea. So, group means we all get to air out are dark and dirty secrets."

Alex sat and took a deep breath "I get to start because that poem…. its very personal and very in keeping with the film's subject matter." Alex then ate one of the divine morsels of Belgian dark chocolate. "Its called Longing and Loneliness. I wrote it when I was fifteen after I sliced my arms to ribbons at school and got sectioned for my stupidity. Yassen had sent me a book of poems. Wonderful words… a really beautiful gift. I missed him, I wanted him and I had lost him because he wanted none of that from me. It was just a game to him and still I loved him so much. Those words are what I felt then. I hate myself because I loved Sergei, but can I write verse like that for him, no I fucking can't!"


	17. Chapter 17

It was two AM and they were all lying on the neat and wonderful kept croquet lawn, looking up at the milky way. Geraint was currently talking about being almost overwhelmed by the duality of life at RADA and his home in Wales, nearly cracking under the strain of earning enough money just to study and live in London. "I had a massive chip on my shoulder to be the best, but I was always cheerful and helpful, everyone liked me and I took joy in being the best, worked bloody harder than anyone else in my graduating class. You spend years on stage, doing shit jobs to make ends meet and then you get noticed, make a movie or two and they call it overnight success. Complete bullshit from start to finish. My parents and my sisters kept me straight, stopped any ego inflation dead in its tracks" The welshman then leaned over and clasped the hand of his wife "God I love strong women. They make a home and your life make sense. I suppose thats very gender specific of me. Love is the key. You young man need to keep looking. I can't talk between eighteen and twenty-nine I chased skirt, flirted with everyone. This was my goal, I never stopped looking for my soulmate… I'm a lucky man, but it was worth waiting and fighting for."

Kay's laughter was soft and musical. "God, I played hard to get, making you work for my affections, considering the reputation you had." The dark haired actress moved to kiss their clasped hands. "You have no friends here locally do you, Alex? You have wonderful solitude in your bolt hole, but I think you should socialise for a break. Come to London for a few days, network with Geraint, who is terrible at talking the hind legs off everyone or just sit in our kitchen, drink tea with an overemotional pregnant woman and weep over badly acted soaps, especially the Archers omnibus. I wept buckets last sunday over that."

Alex stared at the woman, who had guessed his secret guilty pleasure of the double dose of the long running saga of Ambridge then Desert Island Discs. "Are you sure we aren't siblings?"

"Siblings? You are so much more than that. My sister has no love of theatre, music or any form of drama. She aspires to write novels about women in her clique, emotionless and only interested in keeping up with the Joneses. All without humour or irony. She lives for her boring lunches, playing tennis and pretending to be a good, charitable Christian while complaining about the feckless poor, immigrants and socialists. I am actually positive she does not like anything much, definitely not her husband nor her children. Lydia is a wretched bore and we speak about twice a year. She thinks I'm a scarlet woman, a communist and rabid feminist lesbian rolled into one. Well, she's not wrong on all those counts. I'd rather be a bra burning, leftie, lesbian than a stockbroker's wife."

Alex wondered on that. "My friend James' dad is a financier and he's not boring at all. He plays a wicked game of poker and chess. Loves the opera and the ballet and likes dating models. I kind of introduced him to Olga and she says its kismet. I think thats the main reason James stopped talking to me. His dad really needed to get laid and Olga had been dating a useless creep. God, Omar was her boyfriend two years ago and he was my pusher. Introduced me to mixing horse and charlie. It was fucking amazing. Dieter got me sober after that bender and Olga came to Dusseldorf to apologise for her ex. Well, those lovebirds are still together."

It was Laura who pieced together who Olga was. "Did you go to school with James Sprintz then?"

"No, roomies at St. Jude's. I was in for self harm, he was in for being a proper party animal. I was using but never regularly. The time before, I'd had two lines of coke before taking all my sleeping tablets. Get high and I always do monumentally stupid things. Jamie likes to party in every sense. Monogamy is just not his thing, neither is dick. Shame he is rather nice to look at."

…

In the end Alex left his house behind and was driven to St. John's Wood with the director, who spent the entire time on the motorway talking nonstop on his hands free headset driving at over 110 mph between speed cameras, where he slowed to the barely legal 75mph.

At 3, he was sat in a minimalist garden softened with flowers and herbs in pots and drinking a glass of sparkling elderflower with his hostess discussing the great plays of Ancient Greece and their relevance in the twenty first century. Medea was a particular favourite of Kay's. They talked of the great epics from the Trojan War, Odysseus, Orpheus and Eurydice to interpretation of staging and influences.

At seven, an indian takeaway was delivered, eaten in front of the tv, while Geraint watched a recorded rugby game.

"You do know that they never played rugby at Petrus, hockey was OK, but I personally prefer playing the form of hockey with ice skates. It was footy, rounders and athletics at Brookland. I never asked Ian about where he grew up, well I did but he never answered. My mother I think came from Essex or Cambridgeshire, but the Rider's they could have come from the moon."

It then became obvious that Kay had a near eidetic memory when she asked her guest. "Have you never reconsidered football as a career? I'm sure with training you could be fit enough again."

"No, that boat sailed before Ian died. It crushed me when he refused my apprenticeship when I was 13. I'm writing again, not a lot and not anything I care to publish but words are flowing. I'm happy being a penniless poet, thanks."

….

"Oh God, you are wickedly awful, Alex. I know my bitch of a sister is a complete snob about her literary pretensions with her four novels rejected so far, she has no idea how awful they are. Her book club is all very staid in its outlook. Turning up with a nineteen year old published poet for you to read your works in Russian would wind her up immensely. Your third volume has gone to press hasn't it?"

"Yeah, Moscow Literary Review called it disturbing and psychotic. A glimpse of the artistic mind perverted by cruelty, pain and suffering. I think Anna picked the darkest pieces just to add shock value. The next planned volume is pages of me waxing lyrical over my boners, yep I'll be reading porn to your sister's lady friends. Homoerotic porn at that. I'm thinking the poem I wrote about a particularly wonderful afternoon fucking in Nice. Five orgasms, Sergei was convinced that he could die happy after that tumble. I hope he did. He gave me a Kandinsky watercolour for my 18th birthday. Fucking thing is still in a bank vault. Its worth about half a million dollars. I asked about insurance to have it decorate my bedroom. The premiums were more than I live on in year and they wanted me to fix a state of the art security system. I just put the pieces I do have up in a fireproof box when I go walk about. Anyone looking in the box sees my course notes for uni."

….

Kay considered her tray of slightly burnt cocktail sausages, the plate of M&amp;S dips and pate and a dozen bowls of snacks and ripped up fragments of baguette to be a well catered party. Drink, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic, flowed. She was in her element as hostess. Alex had sussed by the dozen or so single older men present that the reason for whole party was for him to consider dating. An architect had given an hilarious description of his office Christmas Party and the various disaster's that had ensued as a result of overindulgence. Don specialised in detailed restoration projects, his practice in Chiswick and the man refused to discuss his past love life. Drawing a firm line under it with "eight years of my life wasted, but tell me all about your recital in Boredom Wood. I hear you shocked quite a few fifty somethings with your blue translations."

"Never ask for translations for one of my poems from volume 4, unless you like in depth descriptions of riding my well endowed lover on silk sheets bathed in the light of a perfect Mediterranean afternoon."

"Oh, I have to compete with your real stud of an ex."

"No, well yes. I like a nice large cock. I also really like barebacking and getting eaten out. Spanking and role-play is optional, but I'm into that as well." Alex said with a lewd smile "God I need to get laid, its been months since I broke up with Mr. Bletchley."

"Oh. The actor who played you. Wasn't that strange, I saw him at a party just after Christmas and he still had the blond hair. The pair of you could be twins."

"He's completely not like me as in personality. A mix of laid back about love and relationships and totally focused on being famous. My brush with infamy is enough of my fifteen minutes of fame. I hope Malc gets to be an A-lister. I think at some point he's going to have to confront his closet issues. He's a top and a homosexual. My indicator is the fact he deep throats when he sucks cock. No hetero guy does that. Or at least that's what he confessed to me. Never been with woman myself, so I just don't know. He wants to keep up the front of being completely heterosexual to help his career. He was a good rebound fling, but I like long term monogamy. I want home and stability, not much pressure for any future dates. You interested in being my comfort blanket. I will settle for sex. Not here though. I have a feeling Kay might like to be voyeur and thats just out of my comfort zone."

Alex watched the guy excuse himself, as his ploy of blatant up front horniness and being too open and honest had scared the rebound guy away.

Geraint then can over with an arranger, another Welsh rugby fan. Alex looked at the guy "You were in NME two, three months ago. Didn't you manage Holistic Nightmares? They sucked, music was OK but their attitude was just unbelievable. Like they deserved to do stadium gigs after one freaking album, which got decent reviews, got minimal airplay, but no one bought."

"I was A&amp;R for Virgin. Those prima donnas gave me the push to actually be a musician again. I actually produced the score for your movie."

"God, not my movie. Edward's interpretation was loosely based on events I described to him. Its several filters away from the truth. Your friends with Geraint, aren't you? He met Yassen, my kidnapper. They crossed paths in Malta. Yes, Yassen told me that he approved of the casting."

"What? Geraint! Come over here. You never told me you met that fucking Russian terrorist!"

It was as if the whole party stopped as all focus was suddenly focused on Martin and Geraint. The actor exclaimed, thinking he had misheard the shouted back "Excuse me?"

Alex then smiled "Vassily, the security guy for that Russian billionaire, you had a drink with him in The Pub in Valetta. Not his real name. That was Yassen Gregorovich. He popped up in North Yorkshire three weeks ago, just to creep me out and to tell me he really liked your interpretation of him. He was very flattered. You have a very scary fan. Don't give me that dawning horror look. He's known where I lived since our last meeting in London, last October. My own personal psycho stalker." Alex wanted to dump a considerable amount of vodka in his coke. No scrub that, forget the coke.

The Welshman wrapped Alex in a bearlike embrace. "I thought the Russian was charming. Shows my psychometer does not work. Fuck, I would never have guessed I met the man of your nightmares. Was it a case if he had not liked my interpret ion he would have killed me?"

"Yeah, nothing personal that's just the type of guy Yassen is."


End file.
